ARGET  WINS 
THE    GAME 

JOHN  r.  A.   WEAKER 


•MR  BP 


California 

^gional 

-cility 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Margey  Wins 
the  Game 


BY  JOHN  V.  A.   WEAVER 

IN   AMERICAN 

MARGEY  WINS  THE  GAME 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
JOHN  V.  A.  WEAVER 

Published,   April,    1982 


Bet  up  and  printed  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton.  N.  Y. 

Paper  (Worren'i)  furnithed  by  Henry  Lindenmeyr  d  Son*.  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Bound  by  the  Plimpton  Preit.  Norwood,  Matt. 


MANUJACTUBKD     IN    THE    UNITED    8TATK8    OT    AMKBICA 


3  8 


To  the  Gang 

Burry,  Dixon,   Marshall,  Bentley,   Williams 
Rend,  Ware,  and  Carpenter,  were  it  not  for 
whose  activities  and  conversations  this  story 
would  never  have  been  conceived  or  executed: 
scattered,  but  in  my  heart  intact. 


661700 


Margey  Wins 
the   Game 


"WHY  don't  you  get  some  dope  on  your 
self?  Don't  be  a  dumb-bell  all  your 
life!" 

That  was  the  speech  that  put  the 
TNT  under  Marge.  Pretty  curt  stuff, 
I  guess,  but  that's  the  way  brothers  talk 
to  sisters  in  real  life,  and  I  want  to  tell 
you  right  here  that  "Realism"  is  my  mid 
dle  name,  and  what  I'm  going  to  give  you 
is  straight.  You  tell  'em  Dostoievsky. 

I'm  getting  awfully  weary  of  all  these 
bogus  yarns  about  society,  where  every 
body  pulls  Shakespeare  or  Eddie  Cantor 
in  every  line.  I've  listened  for  some 
years  to  miles  of  tea-chatter  and  dance- 
floor  comedy,  and  I  hope  to  wear  spats  if 
I  ever  heard  conversation  that  wouldn't 

9 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

discredit  a  shell-shock  ward.  At  any  rate 
in  the  "younger  set." 

Thank  the  Lord,  I'm  thoroughly 
through  with  that  "younger  set"  stuff. 
And  all  of  this  playing  around,  too,  for 
that  matter.  I've  had  more  than  enough. 
I'm  settling  down.  I'm  going  to  be  a 
writer,  and  anyone  knows  you  can't  create 
masterpieces  unless  you  lay  off  the  song- 
and-dance,  and  bid  good-by  to  Ethyl. 
Maybe  I  could  continue  my  loose  ways  by 
selling  bonds  .  .  .  that's  the  way  Brock 
and  most  of  these  other  parlor-pythons 
get  by.  And,  of  course,  there's  always 
Dad's  sinecure,  whatever  that  means. 
But  I'm  going  to  make  some  sort  of  name 
for  myself — who  wouldn't,  if  "Souse" 
Baker  was  his  old  one4? 

A  name  like  that  cramps  one's  style. 

And  it  isn't  helped  any  by  the  fact  that 

everybody  in  Dearborn  knows  I  was  fired 

from  nine — count  'em — nine  prep  schools 

10 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

before  Hogstroms  finally  eased  me  in  at 
New  Haven;  and  when  you  consider  that 
three  separate  and  distinct  freshman 
classes  passed  on  to  higher  academic  glo 
ries  minus  my  cheerful  face — well,  you 
begin  to  understand.  Two  short  weeks 
ago  I  received  my  travel  orders  for  the 
final  time.  Dad  has  now  ceased  foam 
ing  at  the  mouth,  and  consents  to  allow 
me  enough  for  rolls  and  coffee  during  one 
year  of  experimentation.  So  here  I  am, 
a  budding  realist. 

Perhaps  you  think  all  this  Margot 
Asquith  is  irrelevant?  Aha!  That's 
part  of  my  technique,  you  see*?  By  now 
you  must  be  fairly  convinced  of  my  qual 
ifications  for  writing  about  society.  And 
when  I  reveal  to  you  that  Dad  is  the 
Baker — soap — do  you  commence  to  real 
ize*?  Why,  his  father  had  money  even. 
Oh,  there's  no  denying  it,  mine  is  one  of 
the  First  Families  of  Dearborn,  and  I 
II 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

write  with  full  authenticity,  as  the  re 
viewers  will  say. 

But,  returning  to  Marge,  her  brother 
Brock's  attitude  was  ridiculous.  True 
enough,  it  was  taking  rather  a  chance  to 
cut-in  on  her.  And  then,  that  fresh  young 
Williams  called  her  "The  Tangle-foot 
Kid" — and  you  know  how  a  name  like 
that  gets  about.  The  name  applied 
mostly  to  her  propensity  for  getting  stuck; 
as  for  actual  foot-work,  she  was  about 
average. 

Marge  herself  wasn't  average — not  by 
a  flaskfull.  She's  a  sort  of  eighth  cousin 
of  mine,  and  her  mother  was  a  Boston 
Somers.  You  know  what  that  means. 
Flocks  of  position  and  cash.  And  her  old 
man  always  gave  at  least  two  very  cred 
itable  parties  each  year.  By  all  the  rules, 
Marge  should  have  had  a  tremendous 
time.  Brock  stated  the  situation  very 
well — I'll  admit  that,  even  though  I 
12 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

didn't  have  much  sympathy  with  his 
views. 

"What  makes  me  so  confounded  sore," 
he  continued,  "is  that  you  don't  seem  to 
care.  That's  the  whole  trouble,  Marge. 
You  started  off  fine  last  year;  then  you 
didn't  go  so  big  toward  the  end.  Last 
summer  you  got  lost  out  because  you 
would  go  up  to  the  woods  for  two  whole 
months,  with  that  reading  and  other  truck, 
instead  of  sticking  around  and  having 
people  up  for  week-ends  once  in  a  while. 
You  were  a  total  stranger  in  Lake's 
End.  No  wonder  you're  beginning  to 
hug  the  wall  like  the  well-known  rain- 
pipe." 

Marge,  Brock  and  I  were  lolling  around 
their  kitchen,  grabbing  a  shredded  wheat 
after  the  second  "Cinderella"  dance.  I 
was  getting  tired  of  all  that  talk,  so  I 
spoke  up. 

"Oh,  lay  off,  Brock.     You're  a  knock- 

13 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

out,  you  are.  Margey's  a  darn  sweet  kid, 
and  I  like  her  the  way  she  is." 

Brock  gave  me  a  dirty  look.  "Say, 
where  do  you  fit"?  You  don't  have  to 
suffer  the  way  I  do.  I'm  sick  and  tired 
of  being  the  World's  Greatest  Rescue 
Crew.  I  have  other  plans  at  dances  be 
sides  wearing  the  old  eye  out  keeping  it 
on  Marge." 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "you  could  do 
worse  things  with  your  eye  than  keep  it 
on  Marge.  Every  time  I  look  at  her  I 
get  a  large  kick." 

Brocks  voice  rose  to  an  angry  squawk. 

"That's  what  makes  me  so  mad !  Can't 
you  get  that  through  your  dome*?  Here 
I've  got  a  sister  who's  at  least  presentable, 
and  what  does  she  do?  Sits  around  like 
a  namby-pamby — no  pep — reads  all  the 
time — treats  everybody  as  if  they  were  so 
many  old  shoes — and  they  call  her  'The 
Tangle-foot  Kid.'  Hell!" 

Marge  didn't  say  anything,  but  her  big 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

brown  eyes  forecasted  "cloudy,  with  prob 
able  showers." 

I  began  to  be  sore.  "Pipe  down, 
Brock !"  I  said.  "Leave  her  alone.  Don't 
you  let  him  hurt  you,  Marge.  You're  the 
prettiest  kid  in  town,  and  you've  got  it 
over  these  dancing  canaries  like  a  tent. 
Stay  the  way  you  are.  Who  cares,  any 
way?" 

Brock  flung  his  hat  in  the  sink.  "I 
care — that's  who.  I'm  not  going  to  have 
my  sister  a  joke."  He  walked  over  to 
her.  "Play  the  game !  Snap  out  of  your 
self!  Put  some  life  into  your  work!" 

I  broke  in.  "The  deuce  with  the  game, 
Marge.  You're  slick  the  way  you  are. 
Absolutely  the  only  girl  I  ever  saw  who 
keeps  a  mind.  What  if  the  goofers  don't 
cut-in*?  Being  stuck  with  you  is  a  pleas 
ure.  I  get  more  ideas  hearing  you  talk 
about  books  and  art  and  music  and  all 
that,  than  any  Prof.  I  ever  saw  could  give 
me.  Brock's  a  poor  sap." 

15 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

Brock  turned  a  lovely  mauve.  He  dived 
his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  hauled  out 
a  piece  of  paper. 

"I  am,  am  I?  All  right.  I'm  through 
- — absolutely,  positively  and  completely 
through.  You  can  take  charge  of  her,  if 
you're  so  smart.  Read  that  and  weep." 

He  flung  a  piece  of  paper  into  Marge's 
lap,  and  marched  out. 

Marge  looked  the  clipping  over  and 
handed  it  to  me.  She  was  biting  her 
lower  lip  and  trying  not  to  cry.  It  was 
a  rotten  shame,  the  poor  kid. 

I  recognized  immediately  the  familiar 
style  of  "About  Town."  Oh  yes,  it's 
familiar  enough — I  used  to  receive  a 
weekly  raspberry  in  their  columns.  And 
you  know  how  everybody  reads  it.  They 
all  protest  loudly — fling  around  adjectives 
like  "contemptible'" — "scurrilous" — and 
all  that;  but  just  the  same  they  never  fail 
to  know  the  nasty  little  digs  their  friends 
have  been  getting. 

16 


Margey  Wins  The  Game 

And  this  is  about  what  was  regaling 
the  gang. 

"It's  really  too  bad  about  dear  Little 
Margey  Ransom.  At  the  first  Cinderella, 
she  spent  most  of  her  time  sitting  alone 
in  the  dressing  room.  The  ill-mannered 
cubs  of  this  social  generation  have  little 
appreciation  for  true  refinement.  Janey 
Somer's  daughter  a  wall  flower!  It's 
really  too  depressing.  Well,  autres  temps, 
autres  moeurs.  It's  mostly  her  own  fault, 
I  suspect,,  for  not  insisting  upon  a  formal 
debut  last  year.  I  have  been  told  that 
she  refused  the  usual  press-agenting,  and 
preferred  to — 'ooze'  out — I  believe  the 
process  is  disgustingly  called.  The  fact 
remains  that  she  is  most  unpopular.  Per 
haps  she  should  give  up  all  together,  and 
retiring  to  her  reading,  and  all  that. 

This  social  whirl  is  no  place  for  the  shy 
and — shall  I  say — over-finicking1?" 

I  tore  the  thing  into  bits,  and  walked 
over  to  Marge's  chair.  She  looked  up, 

17 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

and  the  showers  had  retired,  giving  away 
to  a  fine  exhibition  of  heat  lightning. 
"Whoa,"  I  said,  "don't  take  it  out  on  me, 
Marge.  I  didn't  write  it." 

Marge  smiled  grimly.  "Don't  be  an 
idiot,  Larry."  (That  was  another  thing 
I  liked  about  Marge;  she  never  used 
"Souse" — it  was  always  "Larry";  in  fact 
she  invented  "Literary  Larry,"  which  I 
hope  sticks,  and  why  shouldn't  it,  because 
— but  never  mind,  we'll  see.)  And  then 
she  stamped  on  the  floor,  and  announced, 
"That  settles  it." 

"Settles  what4?"  I  asked.  But  I  knew, 
all  right.  A  sad  thing  was  about  to  hap 
pen.  A  very  sweet,  very  shy,  very  real 
little  girl  was  about  to  get  hard-boiled. 

I  put  all  the  pleading  possible  into  my 
voice. 

"Margey,  darling  child,  don't  pay  any 
attention  to  these  fish.     Leave  the  game 
alone.     It's  not  worth  it  for  a  second." 
18 


Mar  gey  Wins  The  Game 

Margey  smiled  sourly,  and  patted  my 
hand.  "Shut  up,  Larry  dear.  Now,  an 
swer  me  a  few  questions.  First,  am  I 
truly  pretty'?" 

"Hades,  yes,"  I  answered. 

"But  not  conspicuously  so*?"  she 
pressed. 

"Delicacy — refinement — " 

Margey  stopped  me.  "Sufficient.  No 
pep — that's  what  you  mean.  All  right. 
I  know  how  to  fix  that.  Now.  Can  I 
count  on  you*?" 

"To  the  last  encore." 

"Fine.  And — er — one  last  thing — you 
aren't  in  love  with  me?" 

Naturally  I  wasn't — my  own  cousin1? 
How  could  she  flatter  herself?  A  very 
nice  child,  that's  what  she  was,  but  love 
— well,  no  matter. 

So  of  course  I  answered  up,  "Yes,  Mar 
gey,  I  am.  Quite  badly,  too." 

Margey    smiled.     "I'm    awfully    glad 

19 


Margey  Wins  The  Game 

you  aren't.     Because  it  ought  to  be  much 
easier  to  pretend." 

"Pretend!"  and  my  voice  sounded 
effectively  shocked. 

"Yes,  Larry.  That's  all  I  want  for  a 
starter.  Just  pretend  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  I  won't  need  you  any  more.  You 
see,  I  have  a  plan.  I'm  going  to  play  the 
game,  and  I'm  going  to  win  it.  And 
you're  going  to  be  used — see*?" 

I  dropped  the  kidding,  and  took  hold 
of  both  her  hands,  and  looked  deep  into 
her  eyes.  "Marge,  for  the  last  time  I  beg 
you.  Can  this  stuff.  You  can  count  on 
me,  as  I  told  you.  But  can  it — it  isn't 
worth  it." 

Marge  looked  away.  "You  promised. 
Maybe  it's  not — but  just  the  same,  I'm 
going  to  play  it  and  see.  So — here's  the 
general  theme.  Pay  attention." 

I  sat  down.  And  .you' 11  find  out  soon 
enough  how  much  dope  Margey  really 
had. 

20 


Margey  Wins  The  Game 

This  is  a  dirty  trick  known  as  suspense 
— but  if  I  am  ever  to  exchange  that  name 
"Souse"  for  "Literary  Larry,"  I'll  have  to 
use  all  the  feeble  information  I  ever  ex 
tracted  from  English  1 — a,  b  and  c. 

For  the  next  two  weeks,  Marge  re 
gretted  every  invitation.  This  was  wise, 
because  her  dancing  had  to  be  whipped 
into  shape.  Every  afternoon  I  gave  her 
one  half-hour  of  my  invaluable  time,  try 
ing  to  get  her  to  shake  her  feet  as  if  she 
meant  it,  not  from  duty.  "Just  give  in, 
let  the  old  jazz  get  into  your  blood,  and 
nature  will  do  the  rest" — that  was  my 
only  instruction,  and  you'd  be  surprised — 

There  was  no  half-way  business  about 
any  of  Margey' s  preparations,  either,  con 
found  her.  She  dropped  her  sculping  at 
the  Art  Institute,  and  she  never  opened  a 
book —  "Beautiful  things  make  you  soft, 
Larry,  and  I've  got  to  build  an  armor- 
plate."  She  bought  all  the  numbers  of 
Harper's  Bazar  and  Vanity  Fair  for  a 

21 


Mar  gey  W 'ins  The  Game 

year  back  and  studied  them  carefully, 
developing  thereby  a  line  that  consisted  of 
smart  remarks  on  every  subject  from  plays 
to  Paquin — hollow,  but  amazingly  pat — 
wit  for  every  emergency. 

Meanwhile  she  was  dashing  around 
from  one  dressmaker  to  another — myste 
rious  stuff,  and  expensive,  I'll  bet:  I  put 
in  a  mild  protest ;  she  told  me  it  was  none 
of  my  business,  that  her  allowance  had 
been  piling  up  for  two  years,  and  that  her 
Dad  didn't  care  how  she  spent  it.  If  her 
mother  had  been  alive,  there'd  have  been 
a  different  story — rather,  there  wouldn't 
have  been  a  story  at  all,  because  no 
"game"  would  have  been  necessary.  Her 
Dad,  dear  old  bird,  spent  all  his  time  (ex 
cept  about  three  hours  of  the  day  at  the 
office)  sleeping  either  in  bed  or  in  one  of 
those  mushy-looking  armchairs  facing  the 
boulevard  windows  of  our  exclusive  mau 
soleum,  the  Dearborn  Club.  Brock  asked 
questions,  but  when  I  told  him  that  Mar- 

22 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

gey  was  preparing  to  knock  the  snakes  for 
a  goal,  he  let  out  three  rapid,  piercing 
cheers  and  went  to  New  Haven,  osten 
sibly  to  see  the  game,  but — well,  anyway, 
the  bond  buyers  had  to  get  along  without 
Brock  for  a  month. 


II 


THE  De  Wilk's  Bal  Masque  came  a 
couple  of  days  before  Thanksgiving.  It 
was  the  first  big  blowout  of  the  season, 
and  the  old  Wycherly  was  packed. 

The  time  was  the  celebrated  magic  hour 
of  midnight,  when  a  distinct  lull  is  al 
ways  perceptible.  The  petters  were  hes 
itating;  should  they  chance  a  brief  slink- 
up  to  the  nooks  on  the  back  stairs,  or 
ought  they  to  hang  around  the  supper- 
room  and  secure  decent  tables?  The  stags 
were  half  through  the  process  of  drinking 
their  fill,  cutting-in  was  slack,  cutting-up 
was  becoming  rather  a  bore,  and  every 
body  was  trying  to  figure  out  just  who 
three  or  four  unidentified  maskers  could 
be.  At  that  moment  entered  myself,  ac 
companied  by  one  of  the  cutest  spectacles 

24 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

those  crystal  chandeliers  ever  hung  above. 

The  whole  effect,  as  Madame  Q's  col 
umn  might  say,  was  "daringly  demure" 
— sophisticated  naivete,  or  words  and 
music  to  that  effect.  The  spectacle's  skirt 
was  1860,  modified — sort  of  demi-crin- 
oline,  if  you  get  what  I  mean,  and  just 
short  enough  to  be  not-too-short.  Tight 
bodice,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  and  then 
the  loveliest  arms,  back,  neck  and  shoul 
ders,  all  in  their  proper  places.  That's 
all  I  remember,  except  that  the  dress  was 
peach-colored,  and  the  lady's  hair,  in  con 
trast  with  all  the  covered  ears  and  bobbed 
shocks,  was  up  on  top  of  her  head,  the 
way  you  see  it  in  daguerreotypes,  and 
there  was  one  little  ringlet  athwart  each 
ear.  Her  mask  was  carefully  put  on,  so 
that,  with  all  the  other  innovations,  I 
wouldn't  have  known  her  myself  if  I 
hadn't  been  a  fellow-conspirator. 

I  danced  her  once  around  the  stag-line, 
which  was,  as  usual,  jammed  into  the 

25 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

middle  of  the  room.  Half-way  round,  I 
saw  a  temporary  colored  gentleman  tak 
ing  a  surreptitious  swig  out  of  the  patent 
flask  which  he  carried  concealed  in  his  left 
coat  sleeve.  His  gesture  revealed  to  me 
at  once  that  he  was  Bill  Thompson,  our 
city's  original  Debs'  Delight,  whose  judg 
ment  even  the  most  conscious  man-about- 
town  respected.  I  steered  my  partner 
toward  him  and  trod  carefully  upon  his 
toe.  He  whirled  around  abruptly,  splut 
tering.  Then  he  clapped  his  hand  to  his 
head  and  stared. 

"Great  Lord  and  Taylor!"  he  shouted, 
and  six  couples  in  his  vicinity,  in  their 
curiosity,  collided. 

He  dashed  up  to  us.     "May  I— 

"Get  the  gate,"  I  said  at  once.  "No 
body  cuts  in  this  dance." 

Bill  seized  my  arm  and  tried  to  pry  me 
away.  "How  do  you  get  that  way,  you 
egg?"  he  muttered.  "Miss — eh — Miss— 
eh—" 

26 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Margey  shook  her  head.  I  wrenched 
away,  and  snaked  her  behind  a  providen 
tial  fat  couple.  Bill  was  caught  in  a  jam 
of  dancers. 

And  just  at  that  moment  there  stalked 
up  to  us  who  but  "The  Dook"  himself— 
Jim  Stanton,  the  city's  best  matrimonial 
bet.  Tall,  blond,  manly  and  oh,  so  differ 
ent — the  difference  being  that  on  account 
of  his  acknowledged  super-eligibility,  he 
always  pulls  a  line  of  the  most  patroniz 
ing  rudeness.  His  people  have  had  so 
much  money  for  so  long  that  they  don't 
even  bother  to  talk  about  it — some  record 
for  our  city.  Not  half  as  stuck-up  as  you 
might  expect,  either,  considering  how  any 
sweet  young  thing  shivers  with  delight  at 
his  smallest  insult. 

He  didn't  even  bother  to  ask — just 
started  to  brush  me  aside.  I  dodged 
Margey  away. 

"Nothing  stirring,  Jim,"  I  said  kindly. 

He  gave  me  an  amazed  imitation  of  the 
27 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

dear  old  game,  "Still-Pond — No  More- 
Moving." 

"Sorry,"  I  went  on.  "Lady  has  a  cold, 
so  I'm  talking  for  her.  Any  cut-ins'?" 

Margey  shook  her  head  again. 

"See*?"  I  finished  triumphantly.  Jim 
gulped  twice — and  we  were  out  of  dan 
ger.  That  is,  from  Jim.  But  before  we 
reached  a  strategic  position  opposite  the 
door,  I  had  collected  two  promises  of 
punches  in  the  eye  and  five  muttered 
epithets. 

I  took  a  hasty  glance  around.  Jim 
and  Bill  were  talking  animatedly,  favor 
ing  us  with  nasty  and  threatening  glares. 
They  linked  arms,  and  started  towards  us, 
being  joined  immediately  by  three  other 
annoyed  young  men. 

"Ready?"     I  whispered  to  Marge. 

She  whispered  "Yes,"  and  with  that  we 

made  a  break  for  the  door.     Then  down 

the  back  stairs,  and  out  the  side  door,  and 

into  Margey's  car,  where  we  had  parked 

28 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

our  coats,  anticipating  just  such  an  emer 
gency. 

Margey  tore  off  her  mask.  Her  eyes 
were  dancing. 

"Success?"  she  asked,  as  Jacques  step 
ped  on  it. 

"Oh,  Papa!"  I  said.  "Beats  the 
schedule  fifty  blocks.  Curiosity — ex 
citement — !  Say,  those  birds  won't  get 
over  talking  about  this  for  a  week." 

"Do  you  think  they're  angry?"  and 
Margey  caught  her  breath. 

"Angry!  Telling  the  great  Dook  to 
hit  the  air?" 

"But  you  think—" 

"Think?  I  know.  My  child,  next 
week's  trunk  murder  mystery  will  be  tit- 
tat-toe  compared  with  the  curiosity  you 
stirred  up  to-night." 

Marge  grinned  in  silence  until  we  were 
at  her  door. 


29 


Ill 


It  was  pretty  fortunate  for  me  that  I  had 
accepted  an  invitation  to  go  hunting  for 
the  next  week.  I  left  early  the  following 
morning  for  a  club  down  in  the  wilds  of 
the  Mississippi  flats,  where  I  acquired 
much  health  pursuing  the  nimble  duck.  It 
was  obvious  that  I  would  have  had  some 
very  unpleasant  encounters  with  disap 
pointed  cutters-in. 

As  it  was,  I  didn't  see  anybody  except 
Marge,  and  that  was  on  the  afternoon  of 
my  return.  Instalment  two  of  our  con 
spiracy  was  planned  for  that  night.  She 
told  me  that  some  of  the  girls  had  been 
over,  very  suspicious,  and  plying  her  with 
questions  as  to  why  she  stayed  away  from 
all  the  parties.  Marge's  answer  to  all  in 
quiries  was  that  "she  was  sick  of  being 
one  of  the  flowers  that  bloom  near  the 
palms,  tra-la,"  or  something  like  that. 

30 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

They  were  full  of  guesses  about  the  sensa 
tional  lady  of  mystery — and  every  time 
they  said  anything  they  fixed  Marge  with 
an  accusatory  look. 

"Honestly,  Larry,  I  can't  hide  things 
any  longer,"  Marge  wound  up.  "I  don't 
thjink  anyone  has  very  definite  ideas,  but 
some  are  on  the  trail.  We'll  have  to 
make  the  revelation  to-night." 

"All  right,"  I  answered.  "The  stage 
is  set.  Now  for  the  big  scene." 

So  that  evening,  just  as  the  clock  struck 
twelve,  I  steered  into  the  Wycherly  ball 
room  the  same  charming  spectacle  that 
had  intrigued  the  gang  one  week  before. 
Identical  peach-colored  demi-crinoline, 
ringlets  and  all — only  minus  the  disguis 
ing  mask. 

Well,  there's  no  denying  it,  it  was  a 
sensation.  I  may  even  say  that  half  the 
people  in  the  room  stopped  dancing,  and 
craned  their  necks.  There  was  a  sharp 
pause  in  the  shuffling. 
31 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

Bill  Thompson  pushed  through  the 
stags.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  so  in 
tent  upon  snatching  the  lady  away  from 
me  that  he  hadn't  recognized  her  as  yet. 
I  kept  her  back  toward  him.  Sure 
enough,  he  bounced  up.  I  released  her 
to  him  at  once,  and  fled. 

I  must  say,  Bill  was  an  ace.  Never  a 
flicker  of  astonishment,  never  a  sign  that 
he  felt  he'd  been  roped  in.  Marge  said 
he  started  dancing  with  tremendous  gusto, 
and  said  in  a  voice  that  carried  twenty 
couples  away,  "Marge,  you're  certainly 
there.  Never  fooled  me  for  a  minute." 

That  was  white  of  him,  eh?  And,  of 
course,  having  once  started  that  line,  he 
was  bound  to  hold  to  it;  he  had  commit 
ted  himself  to  giving  Marge  a  whirl,  and 
I  knew  I  could  count  on  him  for  at  least  a 
week. 

Then  I  pulled  a  bit  of  cagey  work  my 
self.  I  hustled  over  to  the  corner,  and 
parked  myself  next  to  the  leader 
32 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

of  the  Nebraska  Glee  Club. 

Now,  of  course,  this  isn't  really  any 
Glee  Club.  But  there  is  a  gang  of  young 
climbers  who  stick  together  for  purposes 
of  social  campaigning.  They  number 
about  twelve,  and  they  are  either  recent 
arrivals  in  Dearborn,  who  came  without 
much  introduction  and  started  by  edging 
in  on  one  or  two  dances,  and  then  called 
faithfully  on  all  the  debs,  or  else  they  are 
South  Siders  who  have  forsworn  their  ac 
customed  haunts  and  companions,  and  are 
on  the  make.  You  know  how  any  Glee 
Club  is  looked  upon,  generally.  And  you 
can  imagine  a  Nebraska  University  Glee 
Club — well,  it's  just  a  term,  but  it's 
really  most  effective.  These  birds  always 

overdo  things — they  wear  their  black  ties 
tucked  under  their  collars,  they  used  to 
sport  the  accordion  dress-shirts — all  those 
little  pieces  of  ultra-stuff  which  are  the 
earmarks  of  the  Blacksmith.  But  they 
do  thejr  duty-dances  disgustingly  faith- 

33 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

fully,  they  talk  blah-blah  to  the  chap 
erons,  and  they  will  truckle  to  almost 
anyone,  if  they  think  they're  making  so 
cial  capital  thereby. 

Marge  had  always  treated  the  Nebras- 
kans  with  the  utmost  contempt.  But  I 
had  a  very  good  scheme.  As  you  know, 
men  are  decidely  sheep-like.  If  a  girl  is 
getting  a  rush,  and  you  can't  take  more 
than  a  couple  of  steps  with  her,  hardly 
anybody  stops  to  consider  the  quality  of 
the  rushers.  All  that  is  noticed  is  the 
quantity.  I  had  Marge's  promise  that  she 
would  be  decent  even  to  Nebraskans.  So 
I  put  on  a  ferocious  glare,  and  began  mut 
tering  to  myself. 

Frank  Considine,  the  Nebraskan 
leader  looked  around. 

"What's  your  sob  story,  Souse*?"  he 
asked. 

I  winced  at  the  "Souse."  But  I  swal 
lowed  the  wrath. 

"It's  that  confounded  Bill  Thompson. 

34 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Why  can't  he  leave  my  girl  alone1?" 

Franky  perked  up.  "Your  girl? 
Who,  the  renovated  Marge1?" 

"Certainly,"  I  answered.  "He  won't 
leave  me  alone  with  her  a  second.  The 
other  night  he  got  sore  because  I  wouldn't 
let  him  cut  in,  and  here  he  grabs  her  first 
thing." 

Frank  looked  incredulous.  "You  mean 
to  say  the  great  Bill  is  falling  for  Marge? 
Why,  only  last  week  he  told  me  that 
when  it  came  to  dancing  she  was  the  su 
preme  gloom!" 

I  indicated  the  two  of  them.  "Look 
for  yourself."  Bill  was  whispering  in 
Marge's  ear — one  of  the  first  tricks  of  his 
technique. 

"Cut  in  on  Bill,  will  you,  Frank? 
I  can't  cut  back,  and  I  want  to  make  this 
dance  at  least  a  two-step." 

Frank  hesitated.  Just  at  that  moment 
Bill  laughed  hugely  as  Marge  smiled  up 
at  him.  This  was  too  much  for  Frank. 

He  sailed  over  to  Marge.     I  let  him 

35 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

get  once  around,  and  cut.  Over  Marge's 
shoulder,  I  watched  him  dash  back  to  his 
cohorts.  There  was  a  brief  consultation. 
Then  Oldsworth  Tripp,  the  second  most 
noted  Nebraskan,  presented  himself. 

I  rejoined  Frank,  who  was  stroking  his 
chin  in  perplexity. 

"How  do  you  get  that  way?"  I  in 
quired  with  just  enough  wrath.  "Did 
you  send  Tripp  in  there  to  cut*?" 

Frank  grinned  smugly.  "Maybe  I  did. 
Who  gave  you  the  earth,  anyway?" 

He  caught  my  arm.  "Listen — when 
is  the  big  dinner  she's  giving?" 

So — Marge  was  using  her  head.  She 
knew  the  way  to  this  type's  good  graces. 
A  very  good  stroke.  The  kid  was  clever, 
all  right. 

"Oh,  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  I  guess,"  I 
answered  carelessly.  And  made  for  the 
smoking-room.  Frank  was  on  his  way  to 
cut  again.  I  fear  I  startled  old  Mr. 

36 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Brady  almost  sober  by  turning  a  com 
plete  handspring  on  the  lounge. 

Bill  Thompson  looked  in,  and  slouched 
over  to  me.  He  stood  looking  down, 
with  a  quizzical  air. 

"You're  there,"  he  announced  finally. 
"That  was  a  darn  good  stunt,  Souse." 

"What  stunt?"  I  asked  innocently. 

Bill  smiled.  "Never  mind.  I'll  say 
this,  though.  She's  not  three-quarters 
bad.  I  guess  I  must  have  overlooked 
something  this  last  year." 

I  put  it^up  to  him  with  no  kidding. 
"Bill,  she's  a  pretty  cute  kid,  isn't  she?" 

Bill  started  out  the  door.  He  stuck 
his  head  back  and  said,  "You  said  it.  If 
you  think  you've  got  any  inside  track, 
you  better  think  some  more.  See?" 

Well,  I  couldn't  have  asked  for  more 
than  that,  could  I?  But  there  was  still 
the  Dook  to  hear  from.  Where  could  he 
be? 

I  picked  up  my  coat,  and  proceeded  to 

37 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

the  Lafolette  for  liquid  cheer.  There 
was  a  large  flock  gathered  round  the  cen 
ter  table  when  I  got  there,  among  them  at 
least  three  who  had  received  throw-downs 
the  week  before,  at  the  mask  affair. 

Apparently  none  of  them  had  been  in 
the  ballroom  since  early  in  the  evening, 
because  almost  in  chorus  they  demanded 
to  be  told  the  identity  of  my  mysterious 
vamp. 

I  told  them  they'd  find  out,  quickly 
enough. 

"I  know  who  she  is,  all  right,'"  an 
nounced  one,  leering.  "Gee,  you've  got  a 
nerve.  I'll  bet  that's  the  first  time  any 
Follies  star  ever  horned  in  on  a  Wycherly 
party." 

I  had  to  laugh.  "You  flatter  me,"  I 
answered.  Just  then  the  Dook  strolled 
in. 

"Nice  fellow !"  he  said. 

"Listen,  Jim,"  I  answered,  "I'm  aw 
fully  sorry  about  the  other  night.  But 

38 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

honestly,  I  wanted  her  all  to  myself.. 
And  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  Just  to 
prove  I'm  a  white  man,  I'll  make  up  for  it 
by  giving  you  the  supper-dance." 

"When4?    To-night?    Is  she  up  there?" 

"She  is.     Do  you  want  her?" 

"Sure!" 

"All  right.  How's  for  looping  back 
there?  Supper  must  be  about  on." 

All  the  way  over,  he  kept  trying  to  pry 
her  name  out  of  me.  I  simply  warned 
him  that  he  was  going  to  get  a  jolt. 

As  we  shed  our  coats,  I  looked  him  right 
in  the  eye. 

"Now  listen,  Jim.  You're  sure  you 
want  to  go  through  with  this?  You 
think  she's  cute  enough,  no  matter  who 
she  may  be?" 

Jim  did  something  like  smirk.  "I 
don't  get  fooled  often.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  masks,  I'd  say  I  never  saw  a  nicer 
looking  girl  in  my  life.  What're  you 
trying  to  do?" 

39 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"Well  come  here.  Point  your  eyes 
over  to  that  corner.  Now  speak  up." 

He  gazed  along  the  given  line,  and 
then  he  turned  back  to  me.  His  eyes 
had  a  good-natured  blink. 

"Why,  it's  young  Margey  Ransom!" 
he  said.  "At  least,  it  was." 

"Was  is  the  word.  Oh,  you're  sober, 
all  right.  What  you  say*?" 

He  slapped  me  on  the  back.  While  I 
was  recovering  my  breath,  he  kept  mut 
tering,  "I'll  be  switched.  Ain't  nature 
wonderful?" 

Then  he  grabbed  my  arm.  "Let's  go," 
he  said,  dragging  me  Margeyward. 

Bill  Thompson  rose  to  his  feet  with 
reluctance. 

"Phone  call  for  Mr.  Thompson,"  I 
shouted  cheerily.  "Marge,  you  probably 
know  Jim  Stan  ton," 

Marge  smiled  calmly.  "I  think  every 
one  does." 

40 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

Jim  was  looking  her  up  and  down, 
grinning.  "You're  excused,  Souse." 

I  hurried  away.  As  Marge  followed 
with  Jim,  he  sprung  a  line  that  startled 
me  beyond  all  bounds,  it  was  so  far  from 
his  usual  casual  insults. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  my  life*?" 

I  knew  right  there  that  Marge  was  off 
to  a  flying  start.  So  back  to  the  Lafol- 
lette  I  went  and  hung  around,  talking 
with  a  bunch  of  the  stags. 

And  suddenly  the  room  was  crowded. 
The  dance  was  over,  and  the  mob  was  in 
for  farewell  libations.  Bill  came  over  to 
me. 

"A  fine  oil  can  you  turned  out  to  be," 
he  said.  "Have  you  been  here  all  this 
time?' 

"Sure,"  I  answered.  "Where's  Marge?" 

Two  or  three  of  them  howled. 
"Where  do  you  suppose"?  Gone  home, 
right  after  supper," 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"Who  did  she  go  home  with*?     Jim'?" 

"That's  the  big  joke.  She  turned  him 
down  cold.  Went  alone.  You  should 
have  seen  Jim's  face.  Oh,  that  kid's  a 
corker." 

Good  for  Marge!  Playing  the  game 
like  a  prom-veteran.  "Slick  stuff,"  I 
agreed. 

We  piled  into  a  taxi,  and  sped  home 
ward.  All  the  way  I  kept  thinking  about 
Marge.  They  all  said  she  was  off  me 
a  mile  for  deserting  her.  I  wondered. 
But  what  of  it,  anyway*?  I  was  only  a 
tool,  after  all.  I  didn't  care  anything 
about  her,  did  I? 

Did  I? 

"Great  Lord,"  I  said  to  myself,  "this 
won't  do.  Larry,  you  egg,  Marge  is  your 
cousin." 

"Only  seventh  or  eighth  cousin,"  my 
self  answered. 

"True  enough.  But  you  had  every 
42 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

opportunity  to  capture  her,  all  these 
years,  and  you  never  raised  a  hand." 

"Yes,  but  she's  a  changed  girl  now." 

"Why,  you  great  fool,  you  know  its 
all  artificial.  This  remodeled  Marge  is 
a  lot  your  own  work." 

"Well  I  can't  help  it.  She's  a  knock 
out.  By  George,  am  I  falling  for  her*?" 

I  was  aroused  from  this  furious  solilo 
quy  by  the  stopping  of  the  taxi. 

"Get  out,  stupid"  yawned  Bill.  "And 
say,  we  have  a  new  rival  in  the  field  for 
the  fair  Marge." 

I  jumped.     "Who?' 

"The  Plumber." 

"You  mean  that  silent  bird,  always 
slinking  around  every  week-end?' 

"The  same.  He  was  a  regular  pest. 
I  wanted  to  strong-arm  him.  Cut  in 
every  other  second.  Ought  to  warn 
Marge  to  lay  off  him.  I  made  a  couple 
of  nasty  remarks  about  him,  but  she  was 

43 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

polite;  treated  him  like  a  human  being. 
Well,  s'long." 

When  I  had  dived  in  bed,  I  made 
plans  for  the  elimination  of  the  Plumber. 
Darling  little  Marge!  What  a  howling 
success  she  was  going  to  be — 

Success!  .  .  .  The  devil!  .  .  .  Ought 
to  eliminate  all  of  them — all  .  .  .  Bill, 
Jim — Nebraskans  .  .  .  Game  ...  All 
foolishness  .  .  .  Saw  her  first  .  .  .  In 
side  track  .  .  .  Have  her  all  myself  .  .  . 
Darling  little  Marge  .  .  .  Darling  .  .  . 


44 


IV 


I  DIDN'T  get  a  chance  to  see  Marge  for  the 
next  week.  Every  time  I  called  her  up 
she  had  just  stepped  out  somewhere.  I 
couldn't  tell  what  was  the  matter; 
whether  she  was  off  me  for  eternity  on 
account  of  my  missing  taking  her  home, 
or  whether  I  had  made  her  so  popular 
that  I  was  now  reduced  to  the  position  of 
cheer-leader. 

However,  Bill  came  over  one  night 
that  I  didn't  have  something  on  the  reg 
ular  calendar,  and  dragged  me  to  the 
Casino,  where  they  were  having  the  first 
nocturnal  skating-fest  of  the  season. 

Bill  and  I  planted  ourselves  firmly  on 
a.  bench  from  which  we  could  observe  the 
numerous  gyrations.  I'm  not  any  male 
Charlotte  myself,  and  I  think  Charlie 
Chaplin  does  his  falls  much  more  pictur- 

45 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

esquely.  Besides,  he  gets  money  for  it. 
I  kept  peering  about  for  a  sight  of  Marge. 
It's  a  good  rink  they  have  there.  The 
tennis  courts  are  surrounded  by  nice 
trim  little  cedars,  giving  the  tasty  effect 
of  the  country  surrounding  a  Noah's  ark. 
The  moon  was  beaming  unctuously — that's 
probably  the  wrong  word,  but  it  has  a 
smooth  sound — so  that  the  whole  effect 
was  unlife-like  and  decidely  toy-like. 
The  nearest  approach  to  any  animals, 
however,  were  the  porcine  figures  of 
Colonel  Kembie  and  his  mate,  who  were 
doing  inside-outs,  and  outside-ins,  or 
whatever  you  call  them,  over  in  a  corner. 
I  gave  you  my  word,  they  reminded  me 
every  minute,  with  their  dainty  hooves, 
of  dressed-up  trick  pigs.  It  was  even 
funnier  because  the  Colonel  got  his  title 
as  an  inspector  of  Mr.  Armour's  products 
in  the  Q.  M.  department,  during  the  late 
unpleasantness. 

46 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Barring  that  somewhat  jarring  demon 
stration,  the  scene  was  really  good  stuff. 
A  great  many  of  the  gang,  both  masculine 
and  feminine,  were  gliding  around  to 
the  music  of  a  grind-organ.  However, 
I  had  no  eyes  for  the  scenery.  I  wanted 
Marge.  And  after  a  while,  up  she  came 
all  right,  skating  furiously,  pursued  by 
three  panting  Nebraskans  and  the  Dook. 
She  wasn't  playing  any  favorites  that 
evening,  anyway.  She  wasn't  getting  a 
chance  to.  I  jumped  to  my  feet,  tot 
tered  across  two  yards  of  ice, — and  picked 
myself  up  again.  Marge  rushed  to  my 
rescue,  and  led  me  back  to  the  bench. 

I  was  grateful,  and  said  so. 

"Thanks  a  lot,  Marge.  I  suppose  it 
was  the  shock  of  seeing  you  that  did  it. 
Can't  you  sit  down  a  second1?  I  want  to 
see  how  many  years  older  you  look  since 
last  I  gazed  upon  you." 

I  gave  her  a  good  long  once-over.  I 
47 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

tried  to  tell  her  what  I  thought.  I 
couldn't  do  it.  I  just  whistled. 

"Well,  you  are  interesting,"  said 
Marge.  "Bill,  can't  you  give  Larry  a 
drink  or  something*?  He's  still  dazed  by 
his  fall  I  think." 

Bill  was  only  too  glad  to  horn  in  on  me. 
But  I  found  my  tongue,  all  right.  "Out 
side,  Bill.  Give  me  just  ten  minutes." 
Bill  grinned  and  started  for  the  club 
house.  Then  I  turned  to  Marge. 

"No,  it  isn't  the  fall  I  got  on  the  ice, 
Margey,  and  I  won't  tell  you  what  fall  it 
is.  I'm  just  that  subtle.  You're  won 
derful!  You're  the  Darbs!  Where  did 
you  get  that  skating  costume*?" 

"Like  it4?"  said  Marge,  and  twirled 
around,  turning  a  couple  of  circles  so  that 
I  could  get  a  complete  view. 

Like  it !  I  had  to  hand  it  to  her.  You 
know  those  illustrations  of  old  fashion 
skating  girls  in  the  Godey's  Books? 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Well,  Mr.  Godey  would  have  passed  out 
with  joy  if  he  could  have  had  her  for  a 
model.  It  was  a  wine-colored  1880- 
looking  affair,  edged  with  grey  fur  and 
she  had  a  little  red  cap  like  a  pile  of 
wheat-cakes,  stuck  slant-wise  on  her  head. 
I  groaned  inwardly.  Great  Lord !  What 
a  blind  goofer  I  had  been,  only  one  short 
month  before. 

In  desperation  I  dragged  her  down  be 
side  me.  "Look  here,  Marge,  you're  not 
sore  at  me  are  you*?  About  ditching  you 
the  other  night,  I  mean?" 

Marge  smiled  demurely.  "Oh,  did 
you  ditch  me?" 

A  handsome  blush  mounted  to  my 
brow.  "Why — er — oh — let  it  go.  I 
mean  I  didn't  turn  up.  I  suppose  you'll 
say  now,  £Oh,  didn't  you?'  Well  I 
didn't,  and  you  know  I  didn't,  and  I 
hope  darn  well  you're  sorry  I  didn't,  or 
mad,  and  please  don't  be,  because — " 

49 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Marge  gave  me  one  of  those  sweet 
smiles  which  have  razor-edges.  "You're 
more  than  forgiven,  Larry.  After  all, 
you  did  much  more  than  your  share  to  get 
me  started  on  my  social  uplift.  I'm  so 
grateful  to  you.  It  isn't  as  if  you  were 
in  love  with  me,  you  know." 

Tie  that,  will  you,  sergeant"?  Sour 
grapes  and  ashes,  as  Daisy  Ashford  re 
marked. 

"Now  look  here,  Marge,"  I  began. 
But  I  stopped.  I  had  been  too  coun- 
founded  clever  altogether.  Why  had  I 
been  so  earnest  that  first  time,  trying  to 
convince  her  of  my  impregnability  to  her 
charms'?  How  on  earth  could  I  ever  get 
started  on  a  new  track  now1?  Once 
more  I  felt  like  a  new  boy  in  front  of  the 
football  captain.  She  certainly  put  me 
in  knickers. 

Marge  got  tired  of  my  inarticulateness 
(Whew)  and  started  digging  the  ice  with 
50 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

her  foot.  I  was  just  getting  a  wonder 
ful  line  all  wound  up  ready  to  sling  at 
her,  when,  of  course,  Bill  had  to  bounce 
up  again,  arrayed  this  time  in  skates. 

"Margey,  dear—  I  got  that  far,  and 
found  her  mysteriously  wafted  away 
from  me.  Bill,  the  poor  egg,  was  skating 
her  'round  and  'round.  So  that  was  that. 

Well,  it  was  punk  fun  freezing  my  feet 
just  for  a  fugitive  glimpse  of  Marge  once 
in  a  while.  I  loped  back  to  the  club 
house,  where  I  found  a  neat  bone-gallop 
ing  seance  in  progress.  My  luck  with  the 
little  leapers  certainly  boded  ill  for  my 
luck  with  Marge.  By  the  time  the  grind 
organ  had  ceased  its  manipulations,  my 
pockets  looked  like  second  helpings  of 
romaine. 

I  was  so  engrossed  in  collecting  Uncle 
Sam's  groceries,  that  I  didn't  hear  the 
first  part  of  a  wonderful  conversation, 
which  started  back  of  me.  A  low, 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

ambling  voice  was  intoning  an  endless 
monologue,  entitled:  "How  I  Play 
Winning  Polo."  Jack  Forrest,  as  usual. 
It  annoyed  me.  I  couldn't  concentrate 
on  snapping  my  fingers.  When  my  left 
ear  had  gathered  the  details  of  the  sev 
enth  goal  which  he  had  shot  against  Kan 
sas  City  that  August,  it  was  too  much. 
He  was  just  working  into  a  good  pace, 
and  I  recalled  that  there  were  four  other 
matches  later  in  the  season,  all  of  which 
would  have  to  be  re-played  vocally.  I 
looked  around  with  one  of  the  dirtiest 
glares  I  could  muster,  and  saw  the  audi 
ence  of  this  long  harangue.  It  was 
Marge. 

I  walked  around  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  circle,  thus  completely  ruining  my 
luck,  as  it  turned  out,  for  I  forgot  to  fade 
anybody,  lost  as  I  was  in  a  study  of  how 
she  put  over  her  work. 

Her  weapon  was  the  oldest  trick  in  the 
52 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

world — and  the  most  effective — sympa 
thetic  listening.  There  she  sat,  curled  up 
on  the  divan,  her  eyes  apparently  popping 
out  with  excited  interest.  Every  now 
and  then  she  would  close  those  eyes  tight, 
and  then  open  them  quickly,  very  wide, 
giving  the  impression  of  amazement  at 
these  wonderful  exploits.  Oh,  the  girl 
was  good,  there's  no  doubt  about  it. 
Whenever  Jack  showed  any  signs  of  tir 
ing — and  I  must  say  he  didn't  show  many 
— she  would  encourage  him  with  a  "Yes, 
and  then  what  did  you  do?" — or  some 
such  feeder,  and  off  he  would  go,  at  full 
gallop.  It's  as  old  as  the  lake  itself, 
that  game,  and  it's  victims'  last  name  is 
Legion.  I'll  bet  Helen  used  to  get  that 
man  Paris  raving  about  how  he  threw 
down  Minerva  on  account  of  Aphrodite; 
and  I  suppose  Eve  used  to  sit  in  rapt  si 
lence  every  evening  while  Adam  told  her 
how  many  new  creatures  he  had  named 

53 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

since  breakfast  and  the  reasons  for  each 
name.  The  way  to  a  man's  heart  is 
through  his  egotism,  saith  the  Prophet. 
Jack  finally  got  to  that  magnificent 
back-hand  wallop  which  saved  the  day 
against  Fort  Sherman,  when  I  found 
myself  thoroughly  separated  from  all  my 
dividends.  I  dusted  off  my  knees.  I 
walked  deliberately  over  and  sat  down  on 
Jack's  hand.  I,  too,  started  a  rapt  list 
ening-in.  He  began  to  get  nervous. 
Marge  was  serene.  Finally,  when  he 
had  started  another  canter  down  the  field, 
he  gave  a  quick  glance  at  me,  and  discov 
ered  that  my  jaw  was  dropping  with  a 
careful  expression  of  amazement.  He 
cast  a  verbal  shoe.  I  could  read  in  his 
face  the  mental  stabling  of  his  ponies  for 
the  night.  He  coughed  a  couple  of  times, 
then  got  up  and  said,  "Well,  good  night 
Marge,  see  you  to-morrow  night.  Same 
to  you,  Souse."  He  put  a  little  extra 

54 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

emphasis  on  the  name,  I  thought.  How 
ever,  I  had  accomplished  my  fell  design  as 
dear  old  Nick  Carter  used  to  say. 

Marge  made  no  comment. 

I  grinned.  "Well,  Marge,  aren't  you 
going  to  say  it1?" 

"Say  what?" 

"Say  'thank  you.'  " 

Marge  gave  me  another  of  those  nasty, 
sweet  little  smiles.  "But  why?  Jack 
is  very — attentive,  shall  I  say?" 

There  you  are.  What  can  you  do 
against  a  girl  like  that?  She  always 
kicked  the  ground  right  out  from  under 
me. 

"Marge,  you've  got  me  all  wrong. 
I'm  a  liar,  Marge.  I  was  a  liar  way  back 
there  that  first  time  we  talked  about  the 
Game.  I  said  I  didn't  care  anything 
about  you.  But  I  do." 

Margey  lowered  her  eyes  with  a  fiend 
ish  imitation  of  modesty.  "Larry,  you're 

55 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

so  flattering.     All  you  boys  say  such  nice 
things  to  me." 

I  squirmed — I  guess  that's  the  word  for 
it.  "Hang  it,  don't  pull  those  little  wiles 
on  me.  You  know  it  isn't  necessary. 
If  you  think  you  have  to  vamp  me,  think 
again.  I'm  your  victim,  Marge." 

Marge  never  blinked.  "Why  Larry! 
I  do  believe  you're  flirting  with  me! 
And  you're  so  good  at  it  too!  Think  of 
all  the  practice  you've  had!" 

I  grasped  Marge  by  the  shoulder  and 
wrenched  her  around  facing  me.  "Say, 
Marge,  will  you  cut  that  stuff?  I  know 
I've  let  myself  in  for  all  this  kidding.  I 
know  I  acted  like  a  smart  aleck  at  first. 
I  was  a  fish.  I  want  to  start  all  over. 
Listen,  Marge,  I'm  absolutely  gone  on 
you."  I  tried  to  fix  her  eye.  She  simply 
would  not  look  straight  at  me. 

There  was  a  steady  silence  for  about 
half  a  minute.  Marge  kept  chuckling  to 

56 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

herself.  I  suppose  I  looked  the  complete 
jackass.  For  just  a  second  she  almost 
turned  serious.  Then  the  corners  of  her 
absolutely  unbeatable  mouth  turned  up, 
and  I  knew  it  was  all  off. 

"Oh  Larry,'  she  giggled,  "you're  such  an 
expert  in  snaking,  aren't  you?  Just 
think  how  you've  helped  me." 

I  gave  up.  I  had  to  laugh  myself. 
She  certainly  had  me  backed  into  a  blind 
alley,  and  my  nose  was  up  against  the 
well-known  brick  wall.  Hornswoggled, 
held  off  at  the  end  of  a  ten-foot  pole,  and 
by  the  product  of  my  own  cleverness! 

I  just  sat  there,  and  when  "Funny" 
Wilkins  came  up,  with  a  sheet  of  music 
paper  in  his  hand,  I  gave  him  the  floor 
without  a  struggle.  As  I  drifted  towards 
the  bar,  I  heard  him  starting  in  on  his 
musical  act  entitled:  "Diminished  Sev 
enths  and  Pink  Intervals  in  the  Composi 
tions  of  Debussy,  Ravel,  and  Myself." 

57 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Margey  was  curled  up  once  more,  her 
eyes  wide  with  interest.  Again  she 
blinked,  again  she  stared  at  the  narrator 
with  girlish  worship. 

And  I  had  tried  to  give  her  dope  on  her 
self!  As  I  passed  by  the  fire  I  heard 
Jack  Forrest  talking  to  the  Plumber. 
" — best  conversationalist  in  town,  by 
golly,"  I  heard  him  say,  "Listen  to  this. 
I  told  her  she  danced  so  differently  from 
the  way  she  used  to.  She  said,  'Yes,  I 
used  to  be  an  indifferent  dancer,  didn't  I*?' 
.  .  .  'Indifferent — how  do  you  mean*?'  I 
asked  her.  Then  she  puts  on  the  most  in 
nocent  look,  and  said,  'Why — neither 
with  you  nor  against  you!'  .  .  .  Wow!" 

She  got  my  vote. 


So  the  season  went  on.  Christmas  came 
and  departed.  Marge  finally  quit  kid 
ding  me,  but  I  was  still  E.  Pluribus 
Unum,  although  one  of  the  closer  com 
petitors.  And  actually  I  did  make  a  lot 
of  progress,  she  treated  me  awfully  well. 
Her  head  didn't  appear  to  be  turned,  in 
spite  of  the  mob  that  followed  her. 

I  decided  finally,  that  I  was  strongly 
entrenched  enough  to  try  out  a  little 
elimination  of  rivals. 

The  day  after  Christmas  I  called  for 
her  in  my  hack  ....  a  punk  little  four- 
year-old  Mercer — and  we  wheezed  up  to 
the  Whip  and  Whistle. 

That  very  nice  club  is  generally  empty 
on  winter  afternoons,  and  it  was  a  big  re 
lief  to  find  no  one  in  front  of  the  cozy  log 

59 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

fire.  Marge  had  been  most  offhand  all 
the  way  out  there,  but  curled  up  in  the 
soft  cushions  of  the  huge  sofa  she  thawed 
out. 

"Well,  you're  certainly  making  them 
sit  up  and  play  Fido,"  I  began.  "That 
was  a  good  name  you  gave  Adam  Perkins. 
I  bet  it'll  be  some  moons  before  he  pulls 
any  more  of  his  filthy  remarks." 

"What?  'Ad  Nauseam'?  Yes,  I 
though  that  was  rather  neat  myself." 
And  she  smiled  complacently. 

"Yes,"  I  agreed,  "you  wallop  the  old 
nail  on  the  head  fairly  often.  You're  on 
the  wrong  track,  though." 

"What's  that?"  she  asked  quickly. 
"My  clothes?" 

"Far  be  it  from  such,"  I  said  hastily. 

"This  consistent  quaintness  is  the  best 

bet  ever.     Keeping  the  curls  was  a  great 

hunch,  and  the  crinolines,  and  floppy  hats, 

60 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

and  ribbons — the  old  1860  trade-mark 
is  a  knock-out.  No.  I  mean  some  of 
your  gent  friends." 

She    flushed.     "Who    in    particular?" 

I  gritted  my  teeth,  then  I  came  out 
with  it. 

"The  Plumber." 

She  sat  back  and  looked  at  me  quiz 
zically. 

"Just  why  do  boys  call  him  that?" 

I  believe  I  must  have  squirmed. 
How  could  I  set  the  thing  in  front  of  her 
so  that  she  could  see  it?  It's  just  that 
a  plumber  doesn't  seem  quite  to  fit.  I 
couldn't  state  much  very  definite  against 
him.  Finally  I  did  manage  to  say,  "Oh, 
I  don't  know.  He's  about  as  sociable  as 
a  clam." 

"You  mean  he's  a  bit  too  serious  for 
all  of  you?" 

"Well,  it's  partly  that.  Conversa- 
61 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

tionally,  he  draws  a  blank  every  shot." 

Marge  smiled.  "If  I  recall  Mr.  Whit 
man's  words,  'To  have  great  poets  we 
must  have  great  audiences,  too.'  ' 

"Meaning,  I  suppose,  that  everybody 
but  you  is  too  dumb  to  get  any  results  out 
of  him?" 

Margey  softened  a  bit.  "No,  Larry, 
dear.  But  I  find  he  talks  extremely  well. 
Surely,  you  aren't  jealous.  .  .  ." 

"Jealous!"  I  yelped.  ".  .  .  .  oh,  let  it 
go.  But  honestly,  Marge,  he  is  a  plumber. 
Where's  he  from?  Who  knows  him? 
He  just  seems  to  pop  in  every  week-end. 
What  does  he  do?" 

Marge  smiled  again,  mysteriously. 
"He's  a  relative  of  the  Streeker's  .... 
that  ought  to  be  sufficient  backing.  And 
he's  an  instructor  at  the  State  Univer 
sity." 

I  paced  the  floor.  "Instructor!  Good 
62 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

night.  My  pet  aversion.  What  does 
he  instruct  in*?" 

"Literature,  I  believe." 

"An  instructor!  I  always  knew  there 
was  something  awful  in  his  private  life. 
I'll  bet  he  starves  all  week  to  get  carfare 
up  here." 

Marge  gave  me  a  queer  look.  "Yes, 
he's  quite  poor.  Only  makes  about  two 
thousand  a  year.  I  don't  wonder  at  youi 
scorn." 

I  knew  I  had  gone  too  far.  "Don't  get 
sore,  Marge.  Only — look  at  the  ears  on 
him." 

Marge  laughed  scornfully.  "There 
are  other  vices  he  has.  He  writes  po 
etry." 

That  was  too  much  for  me.  I  ex 
ploded.  "Poetry!  What  for4?  The 
Police  Gazette4?  Poetry!  I  suppose 
that's  his  drag  with  you." 

63 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

I  gazed  wrathful ly  at  the  fire.  Silence 
ensued. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  rather  liked  the 
Plumber.  The  few  times  we  had  passed 
words,  I  felt  a  something  real,  a  some 
thing  genuine  and  absolutely  worth-while 
about  him  that  made  his  clumsiness 
only  a  shell.  I  really  was  drawn  to 
him. 

But — tell  Marge  that?  When  I  knew 
he  had  to  be  eliminated?  Well,  I  wasn't 
quite  half-witted;  I  knew  my  technique. 
He  would  have  to  be  sacrificed.  So  I 
kept  staring  at  the  fire,  as  if  I  was  furious, 
and  the  Plumber  was  the  most  loathsome 
creature  in  the  universe.  Finally  I 
felt  a  twitch  at  my  coat  sleeve. 
I  turned  around  angrily.  But  a  wild  hy 
ena  couldn't  have  resisted  that  darling 
little  thing,  eyeing  me  wistfully  and  mis 
chievously. 

"Have  I  made  him  angry?"  she  said. 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"Go    on    and    lecture    me    some    more." 

I  had  to  give  in.  "All  right,  Marge,  if 
you  will  let  me  clasp  your  justly  famous 
little  hand." 

Without  a  word  she  put  her  hand  in 
mine.  I  did  have  something  else  on  my 
mind. 

"Listen,  Marge.  I  don't  think  you 
ought  to  go  with  us  out  to  Bartolini's  New 
Year's  Eve." 

Marge  withdrew  her  hand.  "Just  the 
same,  I'm  going,"  she  said. 

"But  Marge,  it's  the  worst  joint  in 
town.  Back  of  the  yards,  and  all  that 
sort  of  stuff.  None  of  the  other  girls 
will  dare  go." 

"Won't  they*?"  countered  Marge. 
"Who  cares?  But  they  will,  I  think. 
Besides 

"Besides  what?  Don't  you  realize 
what  a  ticklish  time  this  is?  You  have  a 
rep  to  sustain.  The  Candlestickmakers* 

65 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

invites  are  on  the  fire  this  very  moment." 

"What  of  it?" 

"Now,  look  here,  Marge,"  I  pleaded. 
"I  know  I'm  the  last  person  in  the  world 
to  take  on  this  virtuous  garb,  and  all  that. 
But  I  want  to  see  you  do  the  right  thing. 
Lord  knows  I  lost  you  on  account  of  this 
beastly  game  you  were  bound  you  were 
going  to  play,  and — " 

Marge  interrupted.  "Wait  a  minute, 
Larry  dear,  did  you  say  lost*?" 

"I  did." 

She  put  her  hand  back  in  mine.  "How 
do  you  know,  Larry*?" 

I  placed  her  hand  gently  but  finally  in 
her  lap.  "Don't  try  to  pull  that  stuff 
on  me,  Marge.  You  know  you  don't 
care  a  darn  about  me.  But  I'm  all  for 
seeing  that  you  win  this  game.  And  the 
Candlestickmakers'  bid  is  the  one  acid 
test,  and  you  know  it." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  she  murmured. 
66 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"Sure.  As  it  is,  you  have  a  good  chance 
of  being  asked.  They  can't  reasonably 
leave  you  out,  even  if  you  are  under  the 
age  limit.  It'll  be  the  blue  ribbon  for 
you.  No  younger  girl  was  ever  bid  be 
fore,  but  you've  made  such  a  hit — now 
don't  ruin  it." 

Marge  sat  considering.  "I  suppose 
the  tabbies  will  all  have  fits  if  they  find 
out  I  went  to  Bartoloni's." 

"You'll  lose  out.  Don't  do  it.  Play 
it  through." 

Marge  sat  up  very  straight.  "I'll 
play  it,  all  right.  I'm  going  to  Barto- 
lini's  ....  and  I'll  get  the  bid  to  the 
Candlestickmakers',  too.  The  game  .  .  . 
pooh!  As  if  I  couldn't  win  it!" 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  I  stood  up.  "Let's 
get  out  of  here." 

She  pulled  me  by  the  coattails.  I  had 
to  sit  down  again. 

"Larry,"   she  said  softly.     "You're  a 

67 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

darling  to  have  been  so  thoughtful.  But 
don't  you  worry  ....  I  know  what  I'm 
doing.  I  do  appreciate  your  looking  out 
for  me  ....  I  do,  Larry,  more  than  you 
can  understand.  You  ....  you  must 
care  a  lot  about  me." 

"I  ....  I  do,  Marge,"  I  said  mourn 
fully.  Great  Gfisar,  how  I  wanted  to 
kiss  her.  But  I  remembered  that  her 
motto  was  "Hands  Off!"  to  every  one. 
Bill  had  told  me  only  the  day  before  that 
the  one  time  he  tried  she  hadn't  struggled, 
or  been  sore  ....  she  had  yawned! 
Still  .... 

They  say  girls  always  know  intuitively 
when  a  bird  means  to  start  something. 
My  hopes  went  down  to  zero  when  Marge 
suddenly  jumped  up,  all  pep,  and  danced 
out,  calling  back,  "Come  on!  Home, 
quick!" 

What  could  I  do  but  follow?  There 
was  some  consolation,  though,  in  this 

68 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

fact:  she  snuggled  very  close  and  patted 
my  cheek  several  times  on  the  way  back. 

That  afternoon  settled  my  hash.  I 
succumbed  without  a  struggle.  From 
then  on  I  couldn't  eat,  I  couldn't  sleep,  I 
couldn't  enjoy  my  liquor  any  more. 

I  was  in  such  a  love-sick  daze  that  I 
left  the  hack  out  in  front  of  the  house,  in 
stead  of  taking  it  to  the  garage.  When 
I  came  out  after  dinner,  I  found  the 
blasted  radiator  was  totally  frozen  up, 
rendering  it  thoroughly  useless  for  the 
next  month. 

But  even  that  failed  to  ruin  my  temper. 
I  was  in  love.  ...  I  was  in  love,  and 
nothing  else  mattered. 


VI 


BY  the  end  of  Christmas  vacation,  what 
with  teas,  matinees,  dances  and  every 
other  known  form  of  indoor  and  outdoor 
sport,  I  was  a  perfect  imitation  of  the 
celebrated  lilies  of  the  field,  at  least  as  to 
color.  But  I'll  say  there's  plenty  of  toil 
connected  with  being  a  "dancing-man," 
and  my  head  did  sufficient  spinning. 
Furthermore,  I  was  so  wild  about  Marge 
that  I  couldn't  tell,  offhand,  whether  it 
was  my  ear  or  my  Frank  Brothers'  upon 
which  I  stood  most  of  the  time. 

Besides,  a  crisis  was  approaching. 
February  was  in  the  offing,  and  New 
Haven.  On  the  morning  of  December 
thirty-first,  Dad  summoned  me  into  the 
library,  and  gave  me  the  once-over. 
70 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Pleasure  was  not  written  in  every  line  of 
his  countenance. 

"Laurence,"  he  said.  Wow!  When 
he  starts  in  with  that  "Laurence"  stuff,  I 
know  something  tasty  is  coming. 

"Laurence,"  he  repeated,  "I  can't  say 
that  you  are  a  great  credit  to  yourself  or 
to  me.  Why  don't  you  abandon  the  idea 
of  going  back  for  a  last  try  at  the  univer 
sity?" 

I  cleared  my  throat  trying  to  figure 
what  to  say. 

"You  do  nothing  there  but  drink  and 
gamble  and  run  wild  around  New  York. 
Now,  if  you  wish  to  stay  here,  I  will  give 
you  a  very  good  job  in  my  business." 

"But  ..."  I  started  in  to  inter 
rupt. 

"I  wish  to  hear  no  criticisms  of  soap. 
It  is,  as  I  remarked  to  Hodgson  the  other 
day,  at  least  a  good  clean  business." 

While  he  paused  to  enjoy  this  bit  of 

71 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

humor,  I  forced  an  appreciative  smirk  on 
my  face,  and  said,  "I'll  think  it  over, 
Dad." 

"Think  it  over?  Yes,  I  should  rather 
say  you  had  better.  It's  a  splendid  op 
portunity.  Of  course,  you  can  go  back, 
as  I  promised  you.  But  I  think  you 
would  be  wiser  to  stay  here.  It's  high 
time  you  were  taking  stock  of  yourself 
.  .  .  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  a  dis 
grace  .  .  .  ."  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  You 
know  that  "high  time"  dope.  At  the  end 
of  half  an  hour  of  this,  I  promised  I'd  let: 
him  know  within  two  weeks. 

All  day  that  proposition  kept  leaping 
about  in  my  mind.  Yes,  I  was  getting 
along.  Old  enough  to  get  engaged,  any 
way.  And  if  I  could  only  maneuver 
some  sort  of  promise  out  of  Marge  .... 
why  Dad  would  have  eight  fits  of  joy  if  I 
signed  her  up.  I  could  go  to  work,  and  in 
a  year  ....  I  had  vivid  visions  of  myself 
72 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

staggering  down  the  aisle.  Margey  .... 
Margey  .  .  .  wherever  I  turned  I  seemed 
to  see  her  in  front  of  me.  I  was  that  bad. 
I  could  hardly  wait  for  evening. 


73 


VII 

WE  left  the  dance  almost  as  soon  as  we 
got  there.  As  Ed  Skeller  remarked  in 
a  loud  voice  (nice  fellow,  Ed;  you  could 
always  count  on  him  for  all  the  undue 
publicity  possible),  "We're  going  to  do 
some  drinking."  Ed  had  secured  the 
table  so  we  had  to  let  him  come  along. 

Not  another  girl  would  join  us.  True 
enough,  we  only  asked  Ruth  and  Martha 
and  one  or  two  others.  They  willingly 
pledged  themselves  to  secrecy  about  the 
whole  matter.  But  they  refused. 

"Very  well,"  said  Marge,  "but  I'm  not 
afraid  of  my  reputation;  I  hope  it  doesn't 
hang  upon  such  a  slender  thread  as  that." 

We  were  three  cars  full.  My  hack 
was  useless,  of  course,  so  that  Jim  easily 
snagged  Marge.  He  was  quite  nasty 

74 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

about  my  offer  to  sit  on  the  floor.  "If 
you  can't  find  room  with  Ed  or  Bill,"  he 
remarked,  "you  can  certainly  buy  a  taxi, 
can't  you?" 

No  use  for  me  to  protest.  He  had 
been  gazing  at  Marge  very  dreamily  all 
evening,  and  it  was  perfectly  clear  that  he 
wanted  a  private  conversation  with  her. 
Damn  him,  the  complacency  of  the  brute ! 
He  knew  he  was  the  most  eligible  bird  in 
town.  Whew  ....  I  certainly  mopped 
my  brow  plentifully  from  the  moment  he 
cruised  off  with  her  in  his  Stutz. 

It  took  only  half  an  hour  to  get  to  Bar- 
tolini's.  Our  two  cars  hove  up  to-gether, 
but  where  were  Marge  and  Jim*?  We 
stalled  around  for  ten  minutes,  but 
the  sounds  of  revelry  were  too  much  for 
Ed  and  several  others. 

We  threaded  our  way  through  a  mass 
of  assembled  shoe-clerks  and  auto  sales 
men  and  prominent  gunmen,  with  the 

75 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

females  of  their  species.  Loud  hoots  from 
one  corner  greeted  us — "Look  at  the  soup 
and  fishes."  .  .  .  Apparently  a  dinner- 
coat  didn't  go  so  big  in  these  circles.  Ail 
of  us  were  doused  with  confetti  and 
snared  with  streamers.  We  gathered 
around  a  huge  table,  right  next  to  the 
music.  Eight  strong  we  were,  all  male. 
Not  so  very  congenial  looking,  I  suppose, 
except  for  Ed  and  Brock,  who  had,  with 
great  forethought,  loaded  their  hips  to  the 
guards.  Gale  Springer,  the  cutie  who 
sang  for  her  darling  Bartolini  on  week 
days  and  caroled  anthems  in  a  neighbor 
ing  church  on  Sundays,  tried  to  break  our 
hearts  with  several  pathetic  ballads.  Our 
waiter  came  loping  up  and  whined,  "The 
teapot  or  the  coffee  pot*?" 

Skeller  demanded  "Thirty  teas" — an 
order  which  the  waiter  almost  refused  to 
believe,  but  a  second  look  at  Skeller  con 
vinced  him  of  its  good  faith.  Ten  tea- 

76 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

pots  were  ushered  in  and  placed,  in  the 
middle  of  the  table.  Each  exhaled  an 
aroma  of  Martinis.  A  teacup  was  iron 
ically  set  at  each  place. 

I  wasn't  having  any.  And  I  noticed 
that  Bill,  also,  turned  his  cup  over.  He 
was  fidgeting  around,  glaring  every  now 
and  then  at  his  watch.  But  he  had  noth 
ing  on  me.  The  famous  Bar-room  Eight 
broke  out  into  some  of  the  meanest  jazz 
that  ever  made  a  foot  twitch.  I  got  up  to 
go  out  after  some  cigarets.  As  I  left  the 
table,  my  toe  caught  in  a  wire  that  ran 
past  my  chair.  I  stumbled  and  almost 
broke  my  knee  cap.  All  of  which  did  not 
contribute  much  to  my  gaiety.  I  cursed 
electrical  arrangements  that  made  such 
accidents  possible.  I  would  willingly 
have  plucked  the  wire  out  by  the  roots 
and  banged  Bartolini  over  the  head  with 
it,  if  I  hadn't  known  that  such  a  deed 
would  short-circuit  the  lights  and  cause 
77 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

even  deeper  gloom  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

When  I  got  back  to  my  chair  I  fumed 
and  fretted  ....  still  no  Marge  and  no 
Jim.  Then  suddenly  there  was  an  extra 
crash  of  the  drum,  the  lights  were  dimmed 
with  only  a  big  spot  thrown  on  the  center 
of  the  doorway.  In  a  dead  silence  every 
body  waited  for  the  advertised  event— 
the  entrance  of  "Queenie"  Curtis  of  the 
Follies,  who  was  to  represent  the  New 
and  practically  unadorned  Year. 

The  door  opened  ....  and  in  popped 
Marge.  Jim  marched  behind  her.  Lots 
of  the  denizens  thought  this  was  the  show, 
and  applauded  wildy,  although  several 
of  them  looked  somewhat  disappointed  in 
the  fact  that  Marge  was  thoroughly 
clothed  in  the  prettiest  crinolinette  of  all 
her  repertoire.  She  certainly  looked  like 
a  million  worth  of  good  news.  I  .... 
and  I  could  see  Bill,  also,  in  the  same 

78 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

mood,  could  willingly  have  patted  Jim's 
confident  face  into  a  pleasing  pulp. 
What  had  happened?  Had  he  proposed 
and  been  accepted?  He  certainly  looked 
happy  over  himself.  As  for  Marge,  she 
murmured  sweet  alibis  about  "losing  their 
way."  And  Jim  hadn't  been  there  more 
than  about  ten  times  before!  My 
evening  was  thoroughly  bogussed.  1 
suppose  they  beat  a  gong  twelve  times, 
and  sang  "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  and  had  the 
New  Year  enter,  and  all  that.  It  flew 
entirely  over  my  head.  I  couldn't  have 
enjoyed  but  one  event  ....  and  the 
criminal  code  saved  Jim  from  that. 

The  plumber  seemed  rather  dazed  at 
all  the  proceedings.  He  looked  a  bit 
bored,  though  polite.  While  Marge  was 
dancing  and  some  of  the  others  were  out 
getting  extra  stimulation  at  the  bar,  he 
draped  himself  on  the  seat  next  me,  and 
started  talking  about  writing.  I  felt  the 
79 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

subject  was  somewhat  out  of  place,  until 
he  remarked  that  the  scene  would  make 
a  good  background  for  a  popular  type  of 
short  story.  "The  kind,  I'm  sorry  to  say, 
that  I  can't  do,"  he  finished. 

I  muttered  something  about  "too  bad," 
and  gazed  bitterly  at  the  frolic  around  us. 
The  din  resembled  a  combination  of 
Ringling's  Circus  and  a  suffrage  meeting. 
Ed  Skeller  was  performing  a  pas  scul  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  just  to  show  that 
he  was  at  home  in  any  dump.  His  turn 
was  a  very  life-like  imitation  of  Frisco, 
and  he  was  showered  with  coins  which  he 
presented  to  the  musicians. 

Marge  came  back  to  the  table,  and  sat 
demurely    chatting   with    Bill,    who   was 
making   up   for   lost   time   by   using  his 
most  earnest  vampings  .  .  .  and  evidently 
with  success,  for  Marge  laughed  delight 
edly,   and  patted  his  hand  once,   which 
raised  my  temperature  to  one  hundred  and 
80 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

seven.  How  Marge  always  kept  such 
pep  I  don't  know,  for  even  on  so  gala  an 
occasion  she  would  not  touch  a  drop  of 
hooch,  but  sipped  away  at  a  sarsaparilla. 
Jim  was  what  I  concentrated  most  of  my 
attention  upon;  he  sat,  pleasantly  supe 
rior,  at  the  other  aide  of  the  table.  He 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  knew  a  thing  or 
two  that  he  wasn't  telling,  and  every  so 
often  he  favored  Marge  with  a  possessive 
glance. 

"Yes,  I  just  sold  a  story  to  The  Cen 
tury,"  I  suddenly  discovered  the  Plumber 
was  saying  in  a  most  ordinary  tone  of 
voice.  I  leaped  to  attention. 

"You  did!"  I  answered,  before  I  real 
ized  how  incredulous  I  sounded.  Then 
quick  recovery,  "Any  chance  for  movie 
rights'?" 

The  Plumber  studied  the  table.  "No," 
he  said  slowly,  "I  don't  believe  I  write 
that  sort  of  thing." 

81 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

I  was  feeling  so  low  I  couldn't  help 
being  a  bit  sarcastic.  "Oh,  going  to  put 
Wells  and  Galsworthy  out  of  business, 
eh?  Well,  there's  wads  of  cash  in  the 
movies." 

He  looked  really  hurt.  "Yes,  I  know 
,it.  I'm  a  bit  of  a  fool  some  ways,  I 
guess.  But  you  see,  Baker  .  .  .  oh,  I 
don't  know.  You  said  you  were  going  to 
try  writing  some  time.  And  I'm  sure 
you'll  do  very  good,  bright  things  that 
will  hit  the  public.  Of  course,  you'll 
make  money,  too.  But  for  myself — oh, 
well,  don't  think  I'm  a  prig,  but  I'd  rather 
put  all  I  have  into  my  stories,  and  let  the 
money  end  go  for  a  while.  Several  critics 
have  said  fairly  decent  things  about  my 
style  and  characterization."  His  eyes 
half  closed,  and  I  swear  from  that  minute 
on,  I  liked  him. 

I  was  just  on  the  edge  of  telling  him 
82 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

that  I  could  see  his  viewpoint,  when  the 
floor  cleared,  and  the  band,  to  which 
Ed  Skeller  had  been  whispering,  opened 
up  on  some  old-fashioned  music.  Bill 
dragged  Marge  to  the  middle  of  the  place, 
and  the  two  of  them  did  a  syncopated 
minuet  that  caused  such  applause  I 
thought  the  roof  was  going  to  blow  off. 
Some  stunt!  And  the  way  Marge, 
simply  shining  with  happiness  and  mis 
chief  looked  at  Bill.  .  .  . 

Some  Broadway  manager,  exiled  in 
Dearborn  over  the  holidays,  insisted  on 
being  introduced  to  Marge. 

"Say,  girlie,"  he  pleaded  with  her,  "I'll 
make  you  one  swell  offer  if  you'll  take 
this  young  man  here,  and  pull  that  minuet 
gag  in  my  new  rev-view!" 

Margey  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  and 
said,  "Oh,  I  really  couldn't." 

"Why,  girlie,"  persisted  the  manager, 

83 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"you'd  knock  'em  cold  turkey  with  that 
cute  rig  ...  and  you  such  a  lady.  The 
old  White  Lights  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  sir,"  interrupted  Marge,  "you 
are  very  flattering.  But  I  hardly  think 
my  father  would  approve." 

The  manager  cast  his  hands  despair 
ingly  into  the  air,  and  walked  away  wag 
ging  his  head  in  sorrow.  Dancing,  if  you 
can  call  it  that,  broke  out  again,  wild 
and  furious.  Skeller,  by  that  time  in 
a  maudlin  state,  was  biting  chunks  out  of 
his  glass  and  trying  to  chew  them. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  terrific  hubbub 
at  the  door,  and  the  music  stopped 
like  a  caught  breath.  Three  men  walked 
calmly  into  the  room,  and  one  yelled, 
"Take  your  seats!" 

A  dead  silence.  A  scream  from  the 
corner  opposite  us.  Some  one  whispered 
hoarsely,  "Raided,  by  God!" 

I  heard  a  nervous  hiccup.     Skeller  had 

84 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

got  down  on  all  fours,  and  was  attempt 
ing  to  crawl  behind  a  screen  back  of  us. 
One  of  the  detectives  yanked  a  gun  out 
of  his  pocket.  "Get  back  there  you!" 
Skeller  flopped  back  into  his  chair. 

I  gave  a  quick  glance  at  Marge.  Her 
eyes  were  big  with  fright,  but  she  was 
plucky  as  they  make  them.  She  looked 
at  me  .  .  .at  me,  I  tell  you  .  .  .  appeal- 
ingly.  I  winked  reassuringly. 

I  slid  my  hand  carefully  into  my  pocket 
and  clutched  my  penknife.  I  pressed  the 
spring,  and  felt  the  blade  fly  out.  I 
moved  my  shoe  around  until  I  touched 
the  electric  light  wire  beneath  my  chair. 

There  was  a  crash  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  A  girl  had  fainted.  The 
three  detectives  spun  around  at  the  noise. 
I  pulled  out  the  knife,  and  lunged  the 
blade  into  the  wire-cord.  There  was  a 
hiss  and  a  flash  as  the  fuses  blew.  All 
the  lights  were  doused. 

85 


Mar  gey  W 'ins  the  Game 

A  roar  of  confusion  .  .  .  panic.  A 
wild  yelp,  "Who  the—!".  .  .  Two  elec 
tric  torches  stabbing  the  blackness.  I 
grabbed  Marge,  and  pulled  her  behind 
the  screen.  I  could  hear  one  of  the  de 
tectives  stumbling  toward  us.  We  made 
a  sudden  dash.  He  grappled  me,  and  I 
tripped  him.  His  gun  went  off  close  to 
my  ear. 

I  flung  myself  against  the  "Ladies  En 
trance"  door.  It  flew  open.  We  made 
time  around  the  corner.  Fine  fish,  those 
inspectors,  not  to  surround  the  place !  A 
taxi  was  steaming  up  the  street.  I 
shouted  drunkenly  at  it.  Marge  had  her 
wrap,  but  I  was  sacrificing  very  gladly  n 
brand  new  hat  and  coat,  luckily  without 
identifying  marks.  I  staggered  very 
carefully  to  the  curb.  Just  as  I  had 
hoped,  the  grinning  driver  thought  we 
had  been  bounced  out  on  account  of  my 
hilarious  condition. 

86 


Margey  Win*  the  Game 

In  another  second  we  had  popped  in 
side.  Marge  begged  the  driver  to  make 
all  possible  speed.  He  was  more  than 
obliging.  I  flashed  a  look  back  at  the 
joint.  It  was  altogether  dark,  but  as  we 
flew  around  the  corner  two  men  popped 
out  of  it  accompanied  by  much  noise! 
Marge  suddenly  went  limp,  and  com 
menced  to  cry. 

I  put  my  arm  around  her,  and  said 
nothing.  This  was  probably  the  best 
thing  I  could  have  done.  We  had  almost 
reached  the  bridge  before  she  wiped 
her  eyes  and  looked  at  me  with,  I  am  grat 
ified  to  say,  a  great  deal  of  new  affec 
tion. 

"Oh,  Larry  dearest,  you  were  wonder 
ful." 

I  had  rather  an  idea  that  I  had  pulled 
some  fairly  smooth  stuff  in  getting  out  of 
that  fracas.  But  of  course  I  had  to  be 
modest. 

87 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"Not  a  bit,"  I  said,  "but  I  hope  those 
others  didn't  get  nabbed." 

Margey  looked  out  of  the  window  for 
a  few  seconds.  Then  she  turned  to  me 
with  a  very  sweet  look.  "Larry,  you  and 
I  always  get  along  together  so  wonder 
fully!" 

Now  this  was  not  altogether  true,  but 
I  was  certainly  glad  not  to  contradict  her. 
Now  was  the  time  if  ever.  I  held  her 
just  a  little  closer A  and  began  to  stutter 
out  my  small  speech. 

I  warmed  up  to  it  after  the  first  few 
sentences.  I  told  her  I  wanted  to  cut  out 
my  wild  ways,  and  all  that  sort  of  rot. 
I  went  enthusiastically  into  details  about 
the  proposition  Dad  had  made  that  morn 
ing. 

And  at  the  end  I  said,  "Margey,  you're 
the  only  person  in  the  world  who  can 
help  me  to  change  from  a  bum.  What 
do  you  say  we  sign  up?" 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Marge  sat  thinking.  Then,  most 
gently  she  said,  "But  I  don't  want  to  get 
married  yet.  Not  for  a  long  time  .... 
At  least  I  don't  think  I  do." 

I  interposed  hastily.  "Not  get  mar 
ried,  Marge.  Just  get  signed.  I  could 
go  to  work  with  all  the  gusto  in  the  world, 
if  I  knew  I  had  just  a  small  string  on  you. 
What  do  you  say?" 

Marge  looked  out  of  the  window  again, 
and  talked  over  her  shoulder.  "But  I'm 
so  young.  And  you  are,  too.  And  I'm 
having  such  a  good  time,  playing  this 
game.  Oh,  Larry  ....  if  this  raid  gets 
out  ....  do  you  suppose  it  will  ruin 
things?" 

I  was  annoyed  to  see  the  question  slip 
ping  away.  "Marge,"  I  urged,  "forget 
the  old  game.  Let's  be  engaged." 

Marge  continued  studying  the  streets. 
Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  me. 
"Larry,  I  ought  not  to  tell  ....  but .... 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Bill   and   Jim  both  asked  me  the  same 
thing  to-night. 

I  groaned.  "I  thought  so!"  I  guess 
I  shouted.  "You  didn't  .  .  .  «"  And 
the  rest  of  the  words  stuck  in  my  throat. 

Marge  squeezed  my  hand.  "No,  Larry, 
I  didn't.  I  told  them  just  what  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  now  .  .  .  Wait.  I  have 
to  think  things  over.  And  I  want  to  win 
the  game  first.  People  used  to  laugh  at 
me  ....  called  me  the  'Tanglefoot  Kid.' 
The  girls  used  to  be  sorry  for  me  .  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Margey,"  I  interrupted,  "what's 
it  all  worth*?" 

But  just  then  the  taxi  pulled  up  in 
front  of  Marge's.  I  swallowed  several 
bitter  curses,  paid  the  driver  who  went 
cheerfully  off,  and  I  stood  bareheaded  on 
the  doorstep. 

"That's  all  the  answer  I  can  have*?" 

Margey   pulled   my    head    down    and 
whispered  in  my  ear.     "You've  been  a 
90 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

darling  always,  Larry.  I  have  so  much 
to  think  over.  Give  me  time.  Oh,  if 
that  raid  only  doesn't  get  out !  Anyway 
....  Close  your  eyes,  and  put  your  hands 
behind  you." 

I  followed  instructions.  I  heard  her 
key  click  in  the  lock.  Then  something 
soft  and  fluttery,  like  a  combined  flower 
and  butterfly  brushed  my  lips. 

I  made  a  grab  for  her.  But  she  slip 
ped  away,  and  stood  safely  inside  the 
glass  door,  blowing  me  another  and  most 
unsatisfactory  kiss. 

However,  I'll  say  I  trod  the  oft-men 
tioned  air  all  the  three  blocks  to  my  place. 
As  I  entered  the  door,  I  noted  that  the 
handy  little  thermometer  registered  two 
above  zero.  And  just  then  I  discovered 
I  was  shivering  from  head  to  foot. 

My  head  felt  as  if  a  race  riot  was  com 
ing  off  inside  it. 

91 


VIII 

HERE  passes  one  full  week  during  which 
I  nursed  a  fine  case  of  grippe.  Not  flu 
....  nothing  so  fashionable  ....  just 
good  old-style  hellish  grippe. 

The  calendar,  when  I  finally  sat  up  to 
beef  tea,  said  it  was  a  week.  But  it  was 
all  one  long  nightmare  to  me.  I  had  a 
slick  variety  of  deliriums  ....  or  deliria, 
whichever  the  case  may  be  ....  in  some 
of  which  I  saw  Marge  stepping  down  a 
church  aisle  with  Bill  on  one  side  and  Jim 
on  the  other  .  .  .  and  myself  chasing  them 
with  wedding  presents  in  the  shape  of 
cartons  of  Baker's  Family  Soap  .  .  . 
that  sort  of  thing. 

There     were     flowers     in     the     room. 
"From  Margey  ....  To  dearest  Larry/1 
I  called  for  the  New  Year's  morning  pa- 
92 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

pers.  They  had  all  been  thrown  out  days 
before.  Dad  and  the  Mater  came  in  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  I  pretended  sound 
slumber.  I  didn't  want  to  bicker  about 
that  party  with  them  while  I  was  in  my 
subdued  condition.  What  the  deuce  had 
happened  to  the  rest  of  the  gang  that 
night4?  And  were  we  in  Dutch  or  not? 
The  nurse,  a  dumb-looking  brute  of  some 
fifty  summers,  always  got  so  kittenish 
when  I  talked  to  her,  that  I  couldn't  bear 
to  attempt  wheedling  any  news  out  of 
her. 

When  the  beef  tea  was  consumed,  I  hit 
on  a  good  hunch.  I  gave  the  Dumbduck 
Brock's  phone  number,  and  asked  her  to 
get  him  over.  She  protested,  but  I 
howled  at  her  like  a  wounded  thing,  and 
she  finally  gave  in. 

Luckily  Brock  was  there.  That  eve 
ning  he  leaped  into  my  room,  and  stood 
grinning  at  me. 

93 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"Some  protracted  hangover,"  he  said. 

"Shut  up,"  I  answered.  "Look  here, 
how  about  that  raid?" 

"We  bribed  our  way  out.  Cost  me  a 
pretty  penny." 

"But  didn't  we  get  into  print?" 

"Bartolini  did  .  .  .  nobody  else." 

"Then  it's  all  hushed  up?" 

Brock  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
"That  poor  idiot  Skeller  ...  he  couldn't 
keep  his  face  shut.  The  tale  of  Marge's 
dance  and  offer  from  the  manager  is 
spread  all  over  town." 

"Good  Lord,"  I  remarked,  "and  the 
old  hens  ....  are  they  on?" 

Brock  laughed  sardonically.  "Can 
you  imagine  all  these  jealous  little  rats  of 
girls  not  piping  forth  to  their  mamas,  now 
that  they  have  something  on  Marge?" 

I  groaned.  "I  suppose  she  is  ruined  for 
the  Candlestickmakers'." 

Brock  nodded  his   head.     "I   fear   as 

94 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

much.  Although  Marge  certainly  handed 
a  lot  of  them  the  most  wonderful  Pink 
Minnie  in  the  world  yesterday  at  the 
Armstrongs'  tea." 

"Pink  Minnie,"  I  may  say,  is  a  polite 
name  for  hot  air.  The  sort  of  thing  you 
say  to  a  hostess  when  the  party's  been  a 
complete  washout.  ...  "I  had  the  best 
time.  .  .  .  Oh,  honestly  Mrs.  Gish,  I 
don't  know  when  I've  enjoyed  myself  so 
much!"  Or  when  they  haul  in  a  yelp 
ing  brat  and  enthuse  about  "Well,  well, 
that  is  a  baby  ....  woof,  woof!" 
"And  Marge  got  away  with  it?" 
Brock  scratched  his  head.  "Well,  I 
tell  you.  Most  of  them  think  Marge  was 
a  darling  little  innocent  who  was  lured 
there  by  us  rough  boys.  I'm  not  consid 
ered  much  of  a  chaperon,  evidently. 
Just  the  same,  there  are  three  or  four  who 
seem  to  be  sure  that  Marge  is  a  complete 
minx,  or  whatever  it  is." 

95 


IX 


BEFORE  he  left,  Brock  convinced  me  of 
the  worst.  So  far  as  I  could  make  out, 
Marge  might  just  as  well  kiss  the  Candle- 
stickmakers  good-bye;  and  all  her  fine 
game  was  shot  to  pieces. 

Wasn't  that  a  shame*?  Poor  little 
Marge.  She  had  set  her  heart  on  that 
badge  of  success.  Now  she'd  have  to 
start  all  over  again,  probably,  to  live 
down  that  party.  And  I  wouldn't  dare 
mention  marrying  me,  for  months.  She'd 
probably  be  in  no  sympathetic  mood  for 
any  tender  stuff  whatever. 

I  called  for  paper  and  pen,  and  tried  to 
write  her  a  letter.  But  I  couldn't  make 
my  thoughts  behave.  Everthing  I  wrote 
was  slushy.  I  gave  it  up,  and  went  to 
sleep,  vowing  I'd  get  out  of  that  beastly 

96 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

bed  the  next  day  and  see  her,  if  I  relapsed 
into  double  pneumonia. 

I  awoke  at  noon  or  thereabouts.  The 
house  was  still,  and  I  gathered  that  the 
Mater  had  long  since  departed  for  shop 
ping.  Despite  the  protests  of  the  Dumb- 
duck,  I  dressed  and  tottered  down  to 
luncheon.  Luckily  nobody  came  home. 
Alma  handed  me  two  notes.  The  one 
from  Dad  I  opened  first.  It  informed  me 
that  he  wished  to  have  a  heart-to-heart 
talk  with  me  as  soon  as  I  felt  strong 
enough. 

The  other  was  in  Marge's  handwriting. 
I  opened  it,  shaking  all  over.  I  read  that 
she  did  hope  that  her  darling  Larry  was 
all  right  by  this  time,  because  he  simply 
must  come  over  that  very  afternoon  with 
out  fail.  She  had  the  most  important 
thing  in  the  world  to  tell  him! 

To  say  that  I  was  excited  would  be  un 
derstating  it  two  miles.  I  tossed  toast 

97 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

all  over  the  table-cloth.  What  could  it 
be — this  "most  important  thing  in  the 
world?" 

I  wobbled  upstairs  and  spent  one  entire 
hour  reclothing  myself  in  the  most  gorge 
ous  garb  I  possessed.  All  the  while  I 
kept  making  guesses.  I  called  Marge 
on  the  phone.  The  maid  said  she  was 
out,  but  that  if  Mr.  Larry  called  up,  to 
tell  him  that  he  was  expected  at  three 
sharp. 

Little  I  fretted  about  the  razzing  I 
knew  Dad  had  stored  up  for  me.  If 
Marge  cared  that  was  enough.  I  felt 
violently  weak  and  excited,  if  you  can  be 
those  things  all  at  once.  But  I  managed 
to  stagger  over  the  intervening  blocks, 
and  as  the  grandfather  clock  in  the  corner 
tolled  three,  I  flopped  down  on  a  huge 
sofa  in  Marge's  sitting-room. 

Almost  immediately  I  heard  her  foot 
steps  dashing  down  the  stairs,  and  in  she 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

burst,  looking  like  peaches  and  cream, 
and  fully  clothed  for  going  out.  She 
dropped  a  small  suitcase  she  was  carrying 
and  ran  over  to  me. 

"Larry!  You  angel!  Oh,  I'm  so 
glad  to  see  you !" 

She  seized  both  of  my  hands.  I  tried 
to  pull  her  down  beside  me,  because  I  was 
sure  now  that  I  could  kiss  her  by  every 
right. 

But  she  danced  away  from  me,  and 
fished  something  out  of  her  pocket,  which 
she  waved  around  in  the  air. 

"Wait !  Wait !  See  what  I  have  here ! 
The  game  ....  Larry  ....  the  game! 
And  she  tossed  the  envelope  to  me. 

"Read  it!"  she  insisted,  and  ran  over 
to  the  piano,  which  she  pounded  wildly 
and  at  random. 

"Hell's  great  yelping  bells!"  I 
thought  to  myself,  as  I  yanked  the  enclos 
ure  out.  So  this  was  what  all  the  excite- 
99 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

ment  was  about!     Stung  again. 

I  read:  The  Twelve  Merry  Candle- 
stickmakers  request  the  honor  of  Miss 
Margey  Ransom's  presence  on  the  eve 
ning  of  January  twenty-third  at  their 
Work-shop  in  the  Hotel  Senate.  Miss 
Ransom  is  further  requested  to  be  pre 
pared  for  the  office  of  leading  the  Grand 
March." 

I  gave  a  heartfelt  yell. 

"Margey!  Absolutely  swell!  One 
thousand  bouquets!  You  get  the  card 
board  Victory  Arch !" 

She  banged  down  the  piano-cover,  and 
stood  up.  Then  she  walked  slowly  over 
toward  me,  very  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  Larry.  I  guess  I've  won,  haven't 
I*?" 

"Won!  I  should  say  you  have!  Not 
only  urged,  but  to  lead  the  blooming 
show." 

Margey  halted  in  front  of  me,  and 
100 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

said,    "Sit  down,   Larry.     There's  some 
thing  else.     That  isn't  all.     I  ...  I  ..." 

She  sat  down  at  the  other  end  of  the 
sofa.  "Stay  there,  Larry.  Promise  not 
to  move  until  I'm  all  through  talking. 
Promise?" 

I  folded  my  hands  in  my  lap.  "Go 
ahead,"  I  said. 

She  sighed  a  little.  "Well,  Larry  .  .  . 
I'm  not  going  to  that  party." 

I  jumped.     "What!" 

"Sit  down.  No  Larry,  I  won't  be  here 
by  the  time  it  comes  off." 

"Honestly,  Marge*?     Not  going  to  it." 

"No,  Larry.  .  .  .  You  see.  .  .  .  Well 
....  You  asked  me  to  marry  you  didn't 
you*?  .  .  .  Sit  where  you  are.  .  .  .  Please, 
Larry,  let  me  go  on.  You  said  you 
wanted  me  to  help  you  not  be  a  bum  any 
more.  I  want  you  to  try  to  do  something 
with  yourself.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to — but  not 
the  way  you  think." 

101 


Margey  Wins  the  Game 

I  got  to  my  feet. 

"Margey!  .  .  ." 

"Larry !  Let  me  finish !  There's  lots 
more.  You  know  Bill  and  Jim  asked  me 
also." 

"Damn!" 

"All  right,  Larry  dear,  only  you  must 
hear  the  rest.  Now,  I've  thought  and 
thought  and  thought,  these  last  few  days. 
First,  about  the  game.  Before  I  started 
playing  I  was  real.  I  loved  reading,  and 
my  sculping,  and  music,  and  all  those 
things  that  matter.  Then  I  changed.  I 
'got  some  dope,'  as  Brock  said.  It  wasn't 
so  much  the  others  ...  it  was  myself  I 
wanted  to  show  that  I  could  play  around 
as  well  as  anyone.  .  .  .  And  now  I've  got 
what  I  have  been  working  for  .  .  .  and  I 
don't  want  it." 

"Margey,  dearest!"  I  interrupted,  "I 
told  you  all  along  it  wasn't  worth  it." 

Margey    nodded.     "I     know,     Larry. 

102 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

You've  been  the  most  wonderful  person 
there  ever  was.  .  .  .  And  now  .  .  .  I'm 
going  back  to  the  things  that  mean  some 
thing.  I  want  to  share  them  with  some 
one  who  understands.  Congenial  and  all. 
I'm  going  to  get  married." 

I  arose  and  went  over  to  her,  put  my 
arms  around  her.     My  heart  was  brim 
ming  over  with  happiness.     "Margey— 
that  was  all  I  could  say. 

She  pushed  me  gently  away.  "Please, 
Larry.  Just  let  me  finish.  I  want  you 
to  see  it  all."1 

I  moved  back  a  foot  or  so  from  her, 
giving  my  eyes  one  thrill  after  another  as 
I  kept  them  glued  on  her. 

"I  looked  at  it  from  every  possible 
angle.  Bill — he's  sweet,  but  he's  only  an 
adorable  parlor-snake,  after  all.  Jim — 
if  I  married  him  I'd  run  Dearborn  after 
awhile.  .  .  .  He's  a  gentleman  through 
and  through.  And  he's  so  marvelous  look- 
103 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

ing,  and  all  that.  But — that's  not  what  I 
want,  either.  I — I  don't  love  either  of 
them.  I'm  in  love,  Larry,  and  he's  some 
body  who's  congenial  always,  and  .  .  ." 

"Margey  .  .  .  dearest." 

"Wait,  Larry.  He  hasn't  any  money 
of  his  own,  at  all.  I'll  have  to  start  in  at 
the  bottom  with  him,  and  go  without  lots 
of  things.  Dad  is  furious  .  .  .  says  I'll 
never  get  one  cent.  .  .  ." 

I  couldn't  hold  back  any  longer.  I 
took  Margey  in  my  arms. 

"But  you're  going  to  marry  me,  just 
the  same,  aren't  you?" 

Margey  trembled  against  me.  She 
put  her  face  down  on  my  lapel.  She  was 
crying,  softly. 

"Oh,  Larry  .  .  .  you've  been  so  dear. 
.  .  .  I've  tried  so  hard  to  tell  you  what 
I've  just  got  to  ...  do  you  care  so  much 
for  me?" 

"You  know  I  do,  Marge." 
104 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

"Oh,  Larry.  ...  I  have  been  square 
with  you,  haven't  I?  Oh,"  and  she 
looked  up  at  me  with  a  sad  little  smile, 
"If  I  could  only  marry  both  of  you!" 

The  light  at  last  began  to  sift  through 
the  ivory  of  my  dome.  "Both  of  us! 
Marge!" 

"Oh,  Larry,  will  you  hate  me  forever 
and  ever?  I've  messed  things  up  so  hor 
ribly!  Everything  I've  said  has  been 
trying  to  tell  you  the  truth,  and  yet  not 
hurt  you.  I  should  have  come  straight 
out  with  it — and  yet  I  just  couldn't!" 

I  led  Margey  gently  back  to  the  sofa, 
and  made  her  sit  down.  "Marge,  dear, 
don't  be  afraid.  I'm  not  altogether  soft, 
I  hope.  It's  my  fault,  anyway;  I  took 
too  much  for  granted.  I  should  have 
known  I  wasn't  good  enough — " 

Marge  interrupted  me  immediately. 
"You  are,  Larry — don't  you  dare  say  you 
aren't!  Don't  you  think  I  can  see  the 
105 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

real  you,  under  all  that  flippancy,  and 
drinking,  and  what  other  people  think  is 
you 7  Other  people!  What  do  they 
matter!" 

"No,  Marge,"  I  answered,  "You're  too 
darn  good  for  me,  and  you  know  it.  I 
knew  it,  too,  all  along.  Only  I  hoped  I 
had  more  luck  than  sense.  See"?  .  .  . 
Who  is  it«  The  Plumber?" 

Marge  nodded  her  head. 

I  took  her  hand  and  gave  it  a  squeeze. 
"Good  for  you,  Marge.  He's  a  good 
egg.  All  the  nasty  things  I  said  about 
him — just  jealousy.  He's  worth  it." 

Marge  put  both  hands  over  mine. 
"Oh,  Larry  you  make  me  feel  so  proud. 
You — you're  a  man,  Larry!" 

My  voice  was  husky.  "Oh,  nix,  nix, 
Marge.  ...  I  was  afraid  he  was  it  ... 
now  I'm  glad  .  .  .  he's  got  the  stuff.  .  .  . 
You  know.  ...  I  feel  .  .  .  please  don't 
think  I'm  conceited,  but  .  .  .  there's  a 
1 06 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

lot  about  him  that's  something  like  me, 
or,  I  mean.  .  .  ." 

"Larry!  That's  it!  That's  what 
made  me  first  like  him.  .  .  .  He's  .  .  . 
he's  the  way  you're  going  to  be  ...  soon 
...  in  a  year  or  two  .  .  ." 

"When  I  grow  up,  you  mean?  Oh, 
that's  what  you  mean,  and  you're  abso 
lutely  right.  That  is — I  hope  so.  These 
other  birds — playing  around,  playing 
around.  Me,  too.  Playing  around.  But 
I'm  through.  I'm  a  kid.  But  I'm  grow 
ing  up.  You  did  it,  Marge." 

Marge  started  crying  again.  "Oh, 
Larry,  if  you  only  knew  how  it  hurts  me. 
I  wish  I  could  marry  you.  There's  lots 
of  things  about  you  that  are  so  fine — 
even  he  hasn't  got  them.  And  you've 
grown  so,  these  last  few  months.  Have 
I  helped?  Have  I,  honestly?" 

"You  bet  your  life  you  have." 

"It's  only  a  little  of  what  I  owe  you, 
107 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

then.  I  don't  suppose  anybody  in  the 
world  ever  had  a  friend  as  true  as  you  are. 
If  he  hadn't  come  along  ....  you  were 
the  only  one,  up  to  that  time  .  .  .  no 
body  else  mattered,  even  if  I  did  play 
tricks  on  you  for  a  while  .  .  .  but  they 
weren't  mean  tricks,  only  fooling  .... 
but  he  did  come,  and  there  was  some  of 
you  about  him,  and  something  else,  I 
can't  explain  what  it  is,  I  don't  need  to, 
do  I?  and  ...  it  ...  it  just  happened. 
And  all  the  time  I  cared  for  you,  too. 
And  I  thought  and  thought  and  thought 

.  .  .  and  I  had  to  decide  .  .  .  and  now 
>» 

I  got  up  from  the  sofa,  and  grabbed  her 

arm.     "Not  another  word,  Marge 

I  only  hope  ....  I  hope  you've  got  a  twin 
sister  somewhere  lurking  around,  that'll 

pop  up  sometime When  I'm  a  real 

man.     See?     Forget  it Now  .... 

Where's  your  good  old  Plumber*?" 
1 08 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Margey  jumped  up,  smiled  crookedly 
at  me,  on  account  of  the  nick-name. 
"Waiting  at  the  drug  store.  License  and 
everything  .  .  .  Poor  old  Dad  .  .  .  But 
it  can't  be  helped.  I  always  said  that 
when  the  real  thing  came  along  .  .  .  ." 

"All  right,  Marge.  Come  on.  I'll  be 
witness  ....  may  I?" 

Marge  came  up  to  me,  put  both  arms 
around  my  neck,  and  kissed  me,  hard. 
"Larry,  you  darling!" 

And  so  we  sneaked  out  to  the  drug 
store,  and  there  he  was,  and  I  got  a  chance 
at  last  to  tell  that  bird  what  I  had  always 
really  thought  about  him,  only  being  so 
jealous  had  kept  me  from  it. 

He  looked  me  right  in  the  eye,  and  I 
want  to  tell  you  I  can  still  feel  that  thrill 
that  went  up  and  down  my  spine  from 
seeing  real,  unadulterated,  frank  friend 
ship,  without  kidding,  without  any  Pink 
Minnie,  in  another  guy's  face. 
109 


Mar  gey  Wins  the  Game 

Well,  that's  how  Margey  played  the 
Game. 

A  year  has  gone  by,  and  the  gang  hasn't 
quit  panning  her  yet  for  an  eighteen- 
karat  fool.  "Throwing  herself  away," 
and  all  that. 

Who  cares'?  There's  three  people  who 
know  whether  she  won  or  not — myself 
— and  my  two  best  friends,  Margey  and 
the  Plumber;  the  latter,  as  you  can  see  by 
reviews  appearing  just  now,  "one  of  the 
most  important  novelists  of  the  younger 
generation." 

THE  END 


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